v3Ss 

I  RSITY  OF  J 

MFORNIA  I 

presented  to  the 

\ LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 


by 

FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 

Mrs.    Edwin  W.    Meise 

donor 


tfr 


Holding  the  Line' 


By 


SERGEANT  HAROLD  BALDWIN 

Of  the  First  Division,  Canadian 
Expeditionary  Forces 


With  Illustrations  and  Diagrams 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1918 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

1918 


Published,  February,  1918 


Copyrighted  in  Great  Britain 


V.  F.  HALL  PRINTING  COMPANY,  CHICAGO 


Sritiraitott 

With  deep  affection  and  reverence,  I  humbly 
dedicate  these  reminiscences  to  the  memory  of 
the  best  pals  that  ever  lived,  and  who  shared  with 
me  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  those  never-to-be-for- 
gotten days  in  France  and  Flanders  when  we  held 
the  line,  and  who  have  paid  the  supreme  price  — 

Major  Campbell 
Captain  Scanlon 
Major  Hopkins 
Private  Skerry 
Private  Shields 
Private  Hood- 
Private  Small 
Private  (Runner)  Jocelyn 
Private  Ruth 
Private  Wellbelove 
Captain  Meikle 
Captain  Curry 
Major  Canaille 
Captain  McGee 
Lieutenant  Mundell 


Jtofateg  Remark 

When  war's  alarm  sounded  in  Canada,  like 
many  thousands  of  young  men,  the  spirit  of  adven- 
ture was  strong  within  me  and  here  was  an 
opportunity,  as  I  thought,  to  kill  two  birds  with 
the  same  stone  —  gratify  my  love  of  adventure 
and  serve  the  Empire  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

I  have  endeavored  to  give  an  exact  picture  of 
my  surroundings,  with  its  accompanying  feelings 
and  sensations,  from  the  time  I  stepped  into  the 
ranks  until  I  got  my  final  Blighty,  and  if  my  word 
picture  will  have  the  effect  of  making  any  man 
get  into  khaki,  I  will  be  more  than  repaid,  because 
the  cause  of  the  world's  liberty  demands  the  active 
cooperation  of  every  able-bodied  man  who  can  get 
into  the  game. 

There  may  be  a  protest  in  the  minds  of  some 
against  the  swearing  habit  of  the  soldier.  I 
firmly  believe  that  if  he  were  deprived  of  the 

[vii] 


viii  PREFATORY  REMARK 

power  to  express  himself  profanely  when  occasion 
seemed  to  warrant,  his  efficiency  would  be 
materially  hampered.  And,  therefore,  I  have  no 
apology  to  make.  Even  the  chaplains  have  been 
known  to  swear  quite  violently  at  times. 

Since  beginning  the  work  of  putting  my  data 
into  book  form,  the  United  States  has  accepted  the 
gauntlet  of  battle  thrown  down  to  her  by  German 
militarism,  and  the  prospect  of  American  lads  and 
British  Tommies  fighting  shoulder  to  shoulder  in 
the  cause  of  democracy  and  the  world's  freedom 
has  inspired  me  with  a  new  hope  and  faith  in  the 
outcome,  and  I  am  resting  content  in  the  unshak- 
able belief  that  when  the  might  of  the  Greatest 
Republic  gets  into  action,  the  murderous  tiger  of 
German  autocracy,  with  its  fangs  dripping  blood 
from  the  lives  of  countless  innocent  victims,  will 
in  short  order  receive  its  final  death  thrust. 
Chicago,  January,  igi8  H.  B. 


While  adventure  of  every  kind  and  character 
abounds  on  all  sides  in  the  trenches,  in  billets  and 
in  the  rear  of  the  front  line,  yet  the  grim  serious- 
ness of  the  business  soon  possesses  a  man  with  but 
a  single  idea  in  life,  especially  when  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  No  Man's  Land  —  to  get  the  Hun  and  get 
him  as  quickly  as  he  can. 

In  these  pages  I  have  but  lightly  touched  on 
the  awfulness  in  the  sections  of  country  over-run 
by  the  human  devils.  I  have  two  reasons  for  so 
doing:  First,  because  I  do  not  believe  it  lies  in 
the  power  of  human  ken  to  adequately  describe  the 
inferno  created  by  the  Hun,  and,  secondly,  if  I 
were  to  devote  my  lines  solely  to  that  phase  of 
my  life  while  in  active  service,  every  page  should 
be  deeply  edged  in  black,  because  —  "I  could  a 
tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word  would  harrow  up 
thy  soul." 

[ix] 


INTRODUCTORY 


Such  is  not  my  purpose.  I  am  blest  by  nature 
with  the  most  intense  optimism  and  this  spirit  has 
never  deserted  me  but  once;  and  I  think  under 
the  same  strain  it  would  have  taken  leave  of  any 
man;  and  since  I  returned  from  the  front  I  am 
more  than  ever  determined  that  for  the  balance 
of  my  time  on  earth  I  shall  endeavor  to  radiate 
optimism  whenever  and  wherever  I  can.  I  think 
I  will  live  the  longer  for  so  doing,  and  maybe 
those  who  come  within  the  zone  of  my  voice  and 
my  pen  may  also  be  the  better  for  the  dissemina- 
tion of  my  love  in  the  joy  of  living. 

Therefore,  the  purpose  I  have  undertaken  has 
been  to  faithfully  relate  my  experiences,  and 
those  of  my  chums,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
one  who  looks  at  the  brighter  side  of  life  while 
undergoing  the  most  severe  test  of  grit  and  endur- 
ance that  ever  tried  mortal  men. 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Answering  the  jCall    ......  i 

II     En  Route  to  Valcartier 5 

III  Canada's  War  Camp   ......  10 

IV  Soldiers  in  the  Making 13 

V    Crossing  the  Atlantic 20 

VI    Land  Ahoy 29 

VII     Salisbury  Plain 34 

VIII  Life  in  the  English  Camp    ....  42 

IX    Getting  Ready  to  Go 55 

X    Leaving  for  France 60 

XI  Landing  in  France  .......  70 

XII     My  Baptism  of  Fire 79 

XIII  In  the  Front  Line 95 

XIV  Saxons   and   Prussians 117 

XV    Training  for  Runner 127 

XVI     By  the  Wayside 133 

XVII     Steenvoorde 143 

XVIII    Ypres 149 

XIX    Battle  of  Ypres 153 

XX    Hell  Let  Loose 158 

XXI     Hanging  On 165 

XXII     Here  They  Come 168 

XXIII  Fighting  for  Our  Lives 178 

XXIV  The  Boches  Balked     ......  188 

[xil 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXV  Fun  and  Fury 194 

XXVI  Yser 200 

XXVII  The  Fun  of  It 215 

XXVIII  Leaving  Yser 219 

XXIX  More  Hell 242 

XXX  The  Last  Fight 260 

XXXI  The  Aftermath 266 

XXXII  In   Heaven 274 

XXXIII  Back  to  Earth 281 

XXXIV  Home 298 

Epilogue     ..........  300 


JUmiiratumB 

PAGE 

Harold  Baldwin Frontispiece 

The  Bull-Dog  Behind  the  Flag 24 

The  Remains  of  a  Once  Prosperous  Village     .     .  56 
Instruments  of  War  and  Peace  Working  Side  by- 
Side 88 

Our  Nest  (Dugout)  Is  on  the  Right    ....  96 

Meals  Are  Any  Time  When  One  Is  Hungry    .  96 

What  a  First-Line  Trench  Looks  Like    .    .     .  100 

German  Shell  Exploding  Near  British  Battery    .  no 

A  Monster  British  Gun 114 

Moving  a  Gun  into  Position 130 

A   Winterly  Morning .     .  140 

Writing  to  the  Old  Folks  at  Home 140 

What  Is  Left  of  Ypres  Cathedral 150 

There  Are  Leisure  Hours  Even  in  the  Front 

Trench 160 

Cleaning-Up   Time     .    <    .    s    ......  160 

Diagram  No.  1  .     .     . 174 

Diagram  No.  2  ...........    .  201 

The  Yser  Canal 202 

Two  Tommies  Talking  It  Over 232 

Ready  for  a  Raid  on  the  Enemy's  Trenches     .     .  262 

The  Raiding  Party  Going  to  "  Give  'Em  Hell  "     .  262 

The  "  War  Twins  "..........  282 

Feeling  Good  in   Blighty 296 


^olbtng  tlje  Htn? 


CHAPTER  I 

ANSWERING   THE    CALL 

ONE  sunny  day  in  the  early  part  of  August, 
1914,  a  little  man  with  a  bronzed  face  and 
a  dingy  set  of  overalls  walked  into  the  armories 
in  Saskatoon,  the  wonder  city  of  Saskatchewan- 
He  was  the  author  of  this  tale. 

"Hello,  Shorty,  what  brings  you  here*?  Hey, 
fellows,  here's  our  mascot."  This  was  the  greet- 
ing I  got  from  one  of  the  recruiting  sergeants. 

I  had  come  straight  from  the  harvest  field,  a 
journey  of  eighty  miles  on  horseback  and  train, 
without  a  coat,  with  well  ventilated  overalls, 
equally  well-worn  shoes  and  an  unshaven  chin, 
and  my  spirits  sank  perceptibly  as  I  realized  the 
contrast  between  my  shabby  five-feet-four  and 
the  classy-looking  recruits  gathered  in  the  ar- 
mories. 


HOLDING  THE  LINE 


However,  like  the  rest  of  the  Englishmen  in 
Canada  who  had  answered  the  call  I  was  deter- 
mined, if  it  was  humanly  possible,  to  go  overseas 
with  the  first  contingent  of  twenty  thousand  men, 
and  I  duly  presented  myself  for  enlistment.  My 
attestation  was  taken  and  I  was  sent  to  the  doctor, 
being  duly  warned  that  I  would  have  to  pass  the 
final  test  at  Valcartier,  Canada's  first  great  war 
camp. 

When  I  entered  the  examining  room  my  spirits 
took  another  drop  as  I  saw  the  magnificent  bunch 
of  tall,  stalwart  fellows  who  were  awaiting  their 
turn.  I  felt  like  a  pigmy  and  almost  turned  tail 
then  and  there.  "Now  or  never,"  I  thought,  as 
I  stepped  up  to  the  doctor. 

"What  do  you  want,  Bub'?" 

"To  enlist,  sir." 

"Forget  it,"  he  said,  "you  are  too  short." 

I  lacked  just  two  inches  of  the  required  height. 
He  gave  me  the  once-over  and  was  a  little  taken 
aback  when  he  found  my  weight  was  one  hundred 
and  forty  pounds. 

I  also  thought  I  would  clinch  my  case  by  telling 


ANSWERING  THE  CALL 


him,  without  winking  an  eye,  that  I  had  served 
with  the  First  Battalion  of  the  North  Staffordshire 
Regiment  in  England  for  four  years,  which  was  a 
battalion  of  the  regular  army,  and  that  as  they 
had  thought  sufficiently  well  of  my  stature  to  sign 
me  up,  a  Canadian  volunteer  battalion  could  not 
in  reason  be  any  more  particular  than  one  of  the 
Imperial  Army.  The  falsehood  is  on  record  there 
today  in  my  attestation  papers  and  I'm  not  in  the 
least  ashamed  of  it. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  are  as  fit  as  any  man, 
but  they  are  sticklers  about  the  height.  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do,  you  may  leave  with  the  boys 
for  Valcartier  and  that  will  bring  you  two  thou- 
sand miles  nearer  England.  As  you  are  determined 
to  go  anyway,  part  of  your  trip  will  be  at  the 
government's  expense. 

I  felt  as  if  I  had  grown  two  inches  when  he 
said  this.  I  got  into  the  ranks  at  once  and  com- 
menced drilling  with  the  rest  of  the  boys  until 
we  left  for  Valcartier. 

It  was  a  nasty  wet  night  when  we  left  Saska- 
toon, but  a  record  crowd  turned  out  to  see  that 


HOLDING  THE  LINE 


wild  band  start  for  the  Great  Adventure.  Few  of 
us  had  relatives  there;  the  majority  of  us  were 
Britishers  who  had  left  the  Old  Country  to  try 
our  luck  in  the  new  land;  but  many  were  veterans 
of  other  wars  who  wanted  to  get  into  the  game 
again,  some  had  encircled  the  world  in  their  wan- 
derings, homesteaders,  railway  men,  clerks  — 
every  walk  of  life  was  represented. 

Ardent  patriotism  for  the  Old  Flag  and  all  that 
it  stood  for  was  the  prompting  motive  of  the  rush 
to  get  into  the  First  Canadian  Division,  but  there 
was  also  the  spirit  of  adventure  strong  within 
every  man. 

The  mayor  and  city  council  and  other  govern- 
ment officials  were  present  to  bid  us  the  soldier's 
farewell,  "Good-bye,  Good  Luck,  and  Godspeed," 
and  the  train  pulled  out  amid  such  a  roar  of 
cheering  that  the  "Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me"  was 
fairly  drowned  in  the  waves  of  departing  cheers. 


CHAPTER  II 

EN  ROUTE  TO  VALCARTIER 

FROM  the  time  we  left  Saskatoon  until  we  got 
into  the  great  camp,  I  dare  say  there  wasn't 
a  man  of  us  who  gave  a  second's  thought  to  the 
idea  that  within  six  months'  time  we  would  have 
had  such  a  share  in  the  defense  of  the  world's 
liberties  as  would  make  the  name  of  Canada  a 
household  word  wherever  the  English  language 
is  spoken,  and  cause  a  thrill  of  justifiable  pride 
to  run  through  the  blood  of  every  Canadian,  aye, 
and  every  Britisher,  because  every  Britisher  takes 
almost  as  much  pride  in  the  feats  performed  by 
men  from  another  part  of  the  Empire  as  he  does 
in  the  deeds  of  the  men  from  his  own  particular 
corner. 

We  were  not  long  on  the  train  before  we  began 
to  get  acquainted  with  each  other  and  friendships 
were  quickly  formed  that  were  soon  to  be  tested 

[51 


HOLDING  THE  LINE 


and  tried  in  the  fiercest  flame  that  ever  burned, 
and  with  no  exception  did  they  fail  to  ring  true. 

And  right  here  and  now  I  want  to  say,  from  a 
full  heart,  that  the  greatest  privilege  ever  accorded 
an  ordinary  mortal  like  myself  was  that  of  serv- 
ing with  that  devil-may-care  crowd  of  lads  who 
sang  and  chaffed  and  swore  their  way  from  exile 
in  western  Canada  to  their  graves  in  France  and 
Flanders. 

The  trip  to  Valcartier  was  uneventful  except 
for  the  loss  of  a  breakfast  one  morning  that  was 
sorely  needed.  Five  or  six  of  the  recruit  waiters 
had  just  entered  our  car  from  the  supply-car, 
carrying  trays  with  our  ham  and  eggs,  and  our 
mouths  were  watering  as  we  watched  them  com- 
ing, when  a  sudden  lurch  of  the  train  sent  the  end 
waiter  bumping  into  the  man  next  him,  and  he 
followed  suit  to  the  man  next  him,  and  so  on 
down  the  line,  and  in  the  effort  to  keep  the  trays 
and  themselves  from  falling,  the  contents  of  every 
blooming  tray  was  spilled  on  the  floor,  the  seats, 
and  the  heads  of  the  hungry  recruits. 

Our  comments  would  not  pass  censor.     Suffice 


EN  ROUTE  TO  VALCARTIER  7 

it  to  say,  if  cursing  could  put  the  Canadian  Pacific 
Railway  out  of  business  that  organization  would 
long  since  have  been  defunct.  We  had  to  go 
hungry  until  noon  as  there  was  no  time  to  get 
another  meal  prepared. 

Another  incident  happened  on  that  trip  that 
concerned  me  most.  We  had  stopped  for  a  short 
visit  at  an  Ontario  town  and  our  officers  decided 
to  give  the  people  a  sample  of  our  military  bear- 
ing, so  we  were  marched  through  the  streets.  I 
think  we  managed  to  keep  step  for  fully  five  min- 
utes at  a  time.  A  kind-hearted  old  creature 
clapped  her  eyes  on  the  "child,"  as  she  expressed 
it,  marching  alongside  of  his  overgrown  brothers, 
and  she  began  to  wail  and  point  me  out  to  every- 
one around  there  as  far  as  her  voice  could  carry, 
and  to  make  matters  worse  we  were  halted  with 
poor  little  me  standing  right  opposite  her. 

"That  poor  child  should  not  be  allowed  to  go 
until  he  has  at  least  stopped  growing,"  was  the 
burden  of  her  plaint,  and  I  was  so  incensed  I  hon- 
estly felt  I  could  kill  her  with  my  bare  hands  and 
revel  in  the  gore,  because  every  fellow  in  the  ranks 


HOLDING  THE  LINE 


was  giving  me  the  snicker,  and  some  of  the  unfeel- 
ing brutes  were  egging  the  old  lady  on.  I  tried  to 
pay  no  attention  —  Lord,  how  I  did  want  to  in- 
form her  I  was  twenty-four  years  old  and  had 
been  separated  from  my  mother  for  six  years.  It 
took  me  a  long  time  to  live  down  the  chaffing  I 
got,  due  to  the  solicitous  wails  of  that  dear  old 
female. 

However,  sober  reflection  tells  me  that  she  was 
not  so  much  to  blame,  because  I  surely  must  have 
been  a  sorry  figure  in  my  five-feet-four  and  dressed 
as  I  was  the  day  I  left  the  harvest  field,  so  I  have 
since  credited  the  outburst  to  her  motherly  in- 
stinct. 

After  we  had  entrained  again  I  was  seated  be- 
side Morgan,  a  chum  with  whom  I  had  become 
very  intimate,  who  was  possessed  of  what  might 
be  called  a  second  sight,  a  gift  of  foreseeing 
things,  and  he  then  told  me  of  a  number  of  things 
that  would  happen  to  me,  every  one  of  which  has 
turned  out  exactly  as  he  foretold  it.  For  instance, 
he  said  the  doctor  would  pass  me  at  Valcartier; 
and  later  in  Flanders,  he  told  me  when  I  was 


EN  ROUTE  TO  VALCARTIER  9 

going  to  be  wounded.  He  also  predicted  his  own 
wound.  Morgan's  devotion  to  me  all  through  our 
campaigning  was  positively  remarkable,  and,  as 
this  story  will  show,  I  have  never  had  cause  to 
regret  the  chance  that  brought  us  together. 

We  finally  arrived  in  Valcartier,  detrained  in 
the  broiling  sun,  and  trudged  from  the  depot  to 
our  new  canvas  homes  at  the  foot  of  the  Lauren- 
tian  Hills,  which  formed  a  wonderful  background, 
with  the  Jaques  Cartier  River  on  our  front,  soon 
to  become  the  swimming  bath  of  twenty  to  forty 
thousand  men. 


CHAPTER  III 

Canada's  war  camp 

WHEN  we  reached  Valcartier  no  one  in  his 
wildest  dreams  would  ever  have  associated 
us  with  soldiers,  as  a  more  motley-looking  crowd 
would  be  hard  to  find.  Here  trudges  a  squat  Scotch- 
man, his  freckled  face  a  stream  of  perspiration, 
cursing  the  heat  with  a  Doric  accent  you  could  cut 
with  a  shovel ;  next  to  him  marches  Big  Bill  Skerry, 
a  tall  Nova  Scotian,  as  straight  as  the  pine  trees 
of  his  native  province.  Dear  old  Bill !  he  lies  in 
the  death  trap  at  Ypres,  dying  as  he  had  lived, 
afraid  of  nothing  in  human  form,  witty  and  dry 
of  speech,  quickest  in  repartee,  and  proud  of  his 
Irish-Canadian  ancestry.  And  for  all  his  profane 
mouth  and  caustic  tongue,  he  was  one  of  the  best 
and  bravest  comrades  a  man  could  find  with  whom 
to  share  the  trials  and  pleasures  of  active  service. 
Marching  with  his  usual  air  of  detached  bore- 


CANADA'S  WAR  CAMP 11 

dom  is  Captain  Innis  Hopkins,  the  most  ridiculed 
and,  later,  the  best  loved  officer  of  all  the  gallant 
men  who  cursed  us  and  nursed  us  and  finally  led 
us  into  France,  as  fine  a  bunch  of  men  as  ever 
stepped  from  a  deck  of  a  transport. 

At  my  immediate  right  proudly  marched  a 
handsome,  rosy-cheeked  boy,  with  a  complexion 
a  lady  might  have  envied;  tall,  lithe,  with  the 
promise  of  a  fine  manhood,  and  with  the  frank 
blue  eyes  of  him  shining  with  good-natured  devil- 
try, he  was  already  winning  the  hearts  of  his  fu- 
ture comrades.  By  his  side  tramped  a  squat, 
slightly  bow-legged  man,  of  swarthy  skin  and  jet- 
black  hair,  streaked  with  gray,  surmounted  by  a 
stubble  of  black  beard.  The  contrast  between 
those  two  was  startling,  and  yet  a  friendship 
sprang  up  between  them  that  no  ordinary  civilian 
ever  will  understand,  a  friendship  cemented  by 
sharing  danger  and  suffering,  sinking  every  selfish 
consideration  for  the  well-being  of  the  other. 

This  will  give  some  slight  idea  of  the  boys  I 
soldiered  with  and  who  were  to  be  my  chums. 
But  of  all  these,  Morgan  was  closest  to  me.     By 


12  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

that  mysterious  attraction  which  draws  men  to 
one  another  we  became  chums  and  yet  no  two 
men  could  be  more  unlike  in  temperament;  he 
was  reserved  almost  to  the  point  of  rude- 
ness, while  I  have  always  been  ready  —  perhaps 
too  much  so  for  my  own  good  —  to  make  friends 
at  once.  When  we  got  into  the  game,  through  the 
medium  of  that  peculiar  characteristic  I  have  al- 
ready mentioned,  he  sensed,  like  the  steer  nearing 
the  shambles,  any  disaster  or  trouble  ahead,  and  at 
those  times  he  would  overwhelm  me  with  demon- 
strations of  affection,  and  afterwards,  apparently 
ashamed  of  his  outburst,  he  would  find  some  pre- 
text to  pick  a  quarrel  with  me,  and  curse  me  with 
a  fluency  and  picturesqueness  only  acquired  by 
long  and  careful  practice.  Many  times  we  got 
to  blows.  But  we  loved  each  other  and  still  do, 
and  his  love  for  me  was  thoroughly  evidenced 
later  on. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOLDIERS    IN   THE    MAKING 

THE  first  thing  we  did  after  our  arrival  was 
to  go  to  the  doctor  for  final  examination. 
Again  my  heart  dropped  when  I  saw  what  seemed 
to  be  a  physically  splendid  man  rejected,  and  I 
felt  that  my  case  was  hopeless.  I  stripped,  and, 
with  my  heart  pounding  like  a  trip-hammer,  pre- 
sented myself.  I  was  reassured  almost  instantly 
by  his  kindly  manner.  He  gave  me  a  most  rigid 
looking  over  and  pronounced  me  fit,  but  shook 
his  head  dubiously  at  my  height.  An  inspiration 
seized  me:  "Doctor,  I  may  be  small,  but  it  is 
concentrated  stuff." 

He  laughed  and  told  me  to  dress.  Trembling 
with  delight  and  relief  I  fell  into  line  to  take  my 
first  "shot  in  the  arm,"  as  we  called  our  inocula- 
tion against  typhoid,  and  when  the  surgeon  jabbed 
me  with  the  needle  I  promptly  fainted  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life. 

[13] 


14 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Life  now  began  in  earnest;  day  succeeded  day 
of  hard  training.  The  weather  was  ideal,  our  only 
trouble  being  the  dust-clouds  raised  from  the 
sandy  ground  by  marching  troops. 

Uniforms  were  issued,  and  in  two  weeks' 
time  one  would  not  have  recognized  us.  Many 
laughable  incidents  occurred  in  connection  with 
our  uniforms;  nearly  every  man  got  something 
that  was  too  big  or  too  small.  The  quartermaster 
gave  me  a  hat  that  was  two  or  three  sizes  too  large. 
I  asked  him  what  I  should  do  and  he  told  me  to 
come  back  in  the  morning,  which  I  did. 

"You  told  me  to  come  back  and  see  you,  sir, 
about  my  cap;  it  is  too  big." 

"Well,  I  can  tell  by  your  bothering  nerve  that 
you've  got  the  swelled  head  and  it  won't  be  long 
before  it  fits  you.    Get  to  blazes  out  of  here." 

I  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  pursue  the  matter 
further.  I  was  wondering  what  I  would  do  with 
the  cap  when  I  espied  a  fellow  with  a  head  like  a 
bull  and  a  cap  resting  just  on  the  crown.  "Here's 
my  chance,"  thought  I,  and  I  was  after  him  in  a 
jiffy.    He  was  a  Scot. 


SOLDIERS  IN  THE  MAKING  15 

"Matey,  how  would  you  like  to  swop  caps'?" 

"Wha's  the  matter  wi'  yours4?" 

"Mine's  too  large."  He  took  mine  and  ex- 
amined it  critically,  feeling  the  quality  and  the 
texture. 

"It's  no  as  gude  as  mine;  I  wudna  swop." 

"Why,  yours  doesn't  fit  you  and  mine  would." 

"Ay,  but  the  quality,  lad,  look  at  the  quality  o' 
mine." 

"  It's  just  exactly  the  same  as  mine." 

"Naething  o'  the  kind,"  he  said,  "the  quarter- 
master is  a  particular  friend  o'  mine  and  he  gie  me 
one  especially." 

"He  did,  like  ducks." 

"O  vera  weel.  Besides,  I  dinna  mind  a  little 
thing  like  that;  it's  the  quality.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do,"  he  said,  "if  you  want  the  cap  an' 
will  gie  me  an  extra  shillin'  on  account  o'  the  qual- 
ity, I'll  maybe  let  ye  hae  it." 

I  spent  no  further  time  arguing  with  him;  I 
realized  at  once  he  was  the  original  one  hundred 
per  cent  efficiency  man  who  bought  something 
from  a  Jew  and  sold  it  to  another  Jew  at  a  profit. 


\6 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

I  gave  him  the  quarter.  He  took  it,  but  before 
giving  me  his  cap,  he  took  mine,  tried  it  on  care- 
fully (they  were  identical  in  every  particular  ex- 
cept the  size),  then  handed  me  his,  gave  me  a 
wink  and  walked  off.  I  felt  I  had  really  gotten 
my  twenty-five  cents'  worth. 

The  happiest  people  in  Valcartier  that  time  were 
the  tailors ;  they  reaped  a  harvest  from  our  repairs 
and  alterations.  An  old  political  campaigner  in 
the  battalion  suggested  that  the  tailors  should  get 
busy  with  the  administration  and  arrange  to  throw 
their  support  to  the  government  if  the  chief  of 
staff  would  agree  to  retain  the  services  of  the 
quartermasters  who  were  such  marvelously  strange 
guessers  at  the  size  of  the  average  man.  We 
laughed  ourselves  to  sleep  that  night. 

The  growth  of  Valcartier  during  our  stay  was 
like  a  chapter  in  Aladdin.  Like  mushrooms  in 
the  night  there  sprang  up  stores,  houses  and  amuse- 
ment places  of  every  description,  and  they  did 
a  thriving  business,  because  the  men  rapidly  ac- 
quired the  spending  habits  of  the  soldier. 

An  attempt  by  one  of  the  moving-picture  pro- 


SOLDIERS  IN  THE  MAKING  17 

prietors  to  extort  money  from  the  soldiers  turned 
out  rather  badly  for  him.  He  advertised  the  same 
picture  for  a  number  of  nights  under  a  different 
title  each  night,  and  a  hard-headed  Scotch  soldier, 
upon  inquiring  if  it  were  not  the  same  film  they 
had  seen  the  previous  night,  was  told  to  go  to  hell. 

"  I'm  running  this  show,"  said  the  proprietor. 

"Weel,  ye'll  no  be  runnin'  it  long,  I'm  think- 
in',"  said  Jock.  "Hey,  lad,"  he  yelled  to  me  as  I 
happened  along,  "run  like  the  deil  to  Company 
B,  Third  Battalion,  over  yonder,  and  tell  them 
Red  Stuart  wants  to  clean  up  a  crook  over  here. 
Hurry,  noo." 

I  shot  across  in  the  direction  indicated  and 
found  a  bunch  of  Highlanders  sprawled  on  the 
ground,  smoking  their  pipes.  I  delivered  the  mes- 
sage and  in  a  twinkling  fully  fifty  brawny  sons  of 
the  heather  sprang  from  the  ground  and  were 
dashing  toward  Red  Stuart.  I  ran  after  them  and 
awaited  developments  a  short  distance  off.  Red 
quickly  told  them  what  had  happened  and  their 
Scotch  sense  of  justice  wronged  was  thoroughly 
aroused. 


18  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"Wha'll  ye  be  wantin'  us  tae  do,  Red4?" 

"MacDonald,  take  thirty  men  to  the  rear  and 
up-end  the  damned  show;  I'll  take  care  o'  the 
front." 

MacDonald  and  his  thirty  men  circled  to  the 
back  of  the  house  and  inside  of  a  minute  it  com- 
menced to  quiver  and  slant  forward.  The  soldier- 
patrons  came  tumbling  out  in  a  hurry,  some  of 
them  head  foremost,  and  soon  were  admiring  spec- 
tators when  they  learned  the  cause  of  the  trouble. 
The  other  Scotties,  under  Red  Stuart,  were  lined 
up  in  front  to  catch  the  theater  when  it  came 
down.  Just  then  the  proprietor  came  tumbling 
out. 

"Who  in  hell's  doing  this?"  he  demanded  of 
Red.  Red's  answer  was  a  blow  on  the  jaw  that 
put  him  to  sleep.  Then  the  money  from  the  till 
came  rolling  out  over  the  floor  and  Red  yelled. 

"Quick,  Sandy  and  Alec,  pick  it  up  an'  we'll  di- 
vide it  after." 

Sandy  and  Alec  let  go  of  the  building  and 
gathered  up  the  money  in  their  caps,  and  Red 
shouted. 


SOLDIERS  IN  THE  MAKING  19 

"All  together,  lads,  let  her  go." 

The  men  at  the  back  gave  a  heave,  the  men  in 
front  let  go,  and  down  crashed  the  frail  building, 
splitting  in  two.  A  streak  of  flame  shot  up  from 
the  middle  and  soon  a  bright  blaze  lit  up  the 
scene,  and  by  its  light  the  Sons  of  St.  Andrew 
religiously  divided  the  spoils  of  war. 

But  the  trouble  did  not  end  here.  A  fire-call 
was  turned  in  by  the  nearest  bugler,  was  caught 
up  by  each  successive  bugler  in  turn,  and  in  two 
minutes  the  entire  camp  was  in  a  turmoil.  The 
men  fell  into  line,  yelling  like  wild  Indians;  it 
was  pandemonium  let  loose.  The  roar  of  noise 
traveled  clear  down  to  the  end  of  the  lines,  where 
it  reached  the  artillery,  the  horses  stampeded, 
made  a  mad  rush  for  the  river,  and  forty  valuable 
animals  were  drowned. 


CHAPTER  V 

^R<!>{>•SING   THE    ATLANTIC 

OUR  military  exercises  had  built  every  man 
of  us  up  to  such  a  degree  of  physical  perfec- 
tion that  we  felt  fit  for  any  test  of  endurance,  and 
the  absence  of  worry.*  the  companionship  of  so 
many  fine  chums,  the  good  wholesome  food  and 
invigorating  air  had  worked  wonders  in  us.  We 
were  no  longer  the  awkward  squad  that  had 
slouched  off  the  train  into  Valcartier. 

Our  officers  told  us  we  were  a  disgrace  to  the 
service,  but  swiftly  the  change  was  taking  place. 
We  could  walk  our  ten  or  fifteen  miles  in  regula- 
tion time,  and  the  standard  of  our  shooting  was 
exceptionally  high. 

At  first  only  twenty  thousand  men  were  to  go, 
but  as  seventy-five  thousand  had  responded  to  the 
call  and  the  eagerness  of  the  boys  to  go  had  caused 
them  to  redouble  their  efforts  to  become  efficient, 

[20] 


CROSSING  THE  ATLANTIC 21 

the  first  expeditionary  force  was  increased  to 
thirty-three  thousand  men. 

Toward  the  end  of  September  we  were  in- 
spected for  the  last  time  by  his  Royal  Highness, 
the  Duke  of  Connaught,  and  in  the  afternoon  we 
were  ordered  to  get  our  kits  packed  and  stuff 
ready,  as  we  were  leaving  for  England.  Excite- 
ment ran  high  and  every  man  was  in  his  place  next 
morning  at  ten  o'clock.  It  was  a  rainy  Sunday 
morning,  but  that  did  not  dampen  our  spirits. 

"  Battalions  will  move  off  by  the  right  of  com- 
panies, No.  1  leading,"  came  the  order;  the  senior 
officer  commanding  shouted,  "Company,  tshun; 
form  fours;  right;  left  wheel;  quick  march."  We 
were  off  for  England. 

After  traveling  the  eighteen  miles  from  camp 
to  Quebec  we  boarded  the  big  steamer  that  was 
to  bear  us  to  England.  My  battalion  was  assigned 
to  the  Lapland,  the  largest  of  the  fleet  transports. 
In  her  hold  thousands  of  sacks  of  flour  were 
stacked,  part  of  Canada's  gift  to  the  motherland 
immediately  on  the  outbreak  of  the  war.  Some 
of  us  did  not  appreciate  the  gift  as  we  might,  be- 


22  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

cause  it  was  part  of  our  duty  to  load  it  from  the 
dock  to  the  hold. 

I  had  a  pardonable  thrill  of  pride  as  I  stood  on 
the  dock  and  watched  our  fellows  file  aboard  and 
I  could  not  help  asking  myself — "Could  these 
bronzed,  cleanly-built,  athletic  men  be  the  same 
who  tramped  wearily  into  camp  one  short  month 
ago*?"  Such  was  the  result  of  our  officers'  untir- 
ing work  and  the  patient  efforts  of  the  regular 
sergeants  who  first  took  us  in  hand,  and  last,  but 
not  least,  the  keenness  of  the  men  themselves  to  be- 
come efficient  and  disciplined  soldiers. 

The  whole  fleet  sailed  from  Quebec  to  Gaspe 
Bay,  where  we  were  picked  up  by  our  convoy.  The 
arrival  of  the  battleships  and  cruisers  was  greeted 
with  rousing  cheers,  which  were  answered  in  kind 
by  the  men  of  the  fighting  ships.  It  was  the  most 
impressive  sight  I  have  ever  witnessed;  up  to  that 
time  nothing  had  so  majestically  expressed  the 
sentiment  of  the  Overseas  Dominions  hastening 
to  the  help  of  the  mother  country. 

B)'  this  time  the  seriousness  of  the  conflict  be- 
gan to  dawn  upon  the  country.     The  magnificent 


CROSSING  THE  ATLANTIC  23 

exploits  of  French's  glorious  little  force  had  fired 
every  one  of  us,  and  every  time  the  band  played 
"Tipperary,"  the  wildest  enthusiasm  prevailed. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  first  nights  aboard  that  the 
first  shadow  of  the  war  fell  upon  me.  A  sort  of 
gloomy  mist  rose  before  my  eyes  and  clouded  my 
brain,  and  I  felt  morally  certain  that  something 
had  happened  to  Tom,  my  twin  brother,  and  sor- 
rowfully I  have  to  tell  that  he  died  in  the  battle 
of  the  Marne.  I  did  not  learn  the  particulars  until 
I  reached  England.  He  died  as  he  would  have 
wished  to  die,  fighting  gloriously  for  the  Empire. 

Very  few  of  the  battalions  had  bands  with  them, 
but  the  Sixth  of  Winnipeg,  that  embarked  with 
us,  had  a  splendid  band,  and  they  were  most  gen- 
erous in  supplying  us  with  musical  treats  all  the 
way  across. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene  at  these  concerts, 
especially  at  night  —  the  moon  shining  on  the  sea, 
calm  almost  as  a  lake,  the  men  lounging  in  various 
attitudes  of  ease,  some  leaning  over  the  taffrail, 
others  in  chairs,  and  all  smoking  and  enjoying 
the  strains  to  their  hearts'  content. 


24 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

The  only  disagreeable  feature  of  the  voyage 
was  the  deadly  regularity  with  which  we  were  fed 
upon  stew;  our  feelings  in  this  regard  were  put 
into  rhyme  by  one  of  the  grim  humorists  of  the 
battalion: 

Our  daily  bread  is  stew, 

That's  all  the  cook  can  brew, 

For  kind  heaven's  sake,  please  give  us  some  cake 

Or  anything  else  that's  new. 

One  night  at  dinner,  when  the  waiter  handed 
him  his  stew,  he  stood  up,  and,  calling  for  silence, 
announced  that  he  had  a  few  remarks  to  offer  for 
the  benefit  of  the  misguided  souls  who  entertained 
the  notion  that  we  were  not  properly  fed.  There 
was  an  angry  clatter  of  knives  on  the  plates  of  the 
stew,  as  the  men  were  fighting  mad  with  the  mo- 
notony of  the  grub,  but  nnaHy  the  speaker  got  a 
semblance  of  order  and  he  commenced: 

"Soldiers  of  the  King,  I  believe  it  is  duly  right 
and  fair  to  the  cook  and  the  commissariat  that  the 
idea  which  has  seemed  to  be  finding  lodgment  in 
the  minds  of  some  of  us  that  we  are  not  properly 
looked  after,  as  far  as  our  stomachs  are  concerned, 


CROSSING  THE  ATLANTIC 25 

should  be  banished  at  once,  and  I  feel  sure  it  will 
be  when  I  point  out  to  you  in  a  few  words  how 
erroneous  that  thought  is. 

"Have  you  ever  considered  what  a  load  of 
anxiety  is  lifted  from  our  minds  as  to  what  we  are 
going  to  have  for  breakfast,  for  dinner,  for  sup- 
per*?   Have  you  ever  thought  about  that?" 

"You're  damned  right,  we  have,"  from  fifty 
throats  at  once. 

"Be  patient,  please,  for  just  a  moment.  Have 
you  ever  thought  that  we  are  saved  absolutely 
every  petty  worry  as  to  whether  the  roast  beef 
will  be  tough,  the  chops  old  and  unpalatable,  the 
fish  mushy,  or  the  pudding  not  properly  seasoned'? 
Not  a  particle  of  troublesome  speculation  about 
any  of  these  things." 

"For  God's  sake,  let  them  trouble  us  all  they 
want,"  from  the  audience.    He  continued : 

"We  take  our  places  at  the  table  calm  and 
serene  in  the  perfect  confidence  that  there  is  not 
the  least  doubt  as  to  what  we  are  going  to  eat, 
and  filled  full  of  adoration  in  the  sacredness  of 
our  food,  for  do  we  not  know  that  it  is  like  unto 


26  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  holiest  man  that  ever  trod  this  old  earth  of 
ours  —  the  same,  yesterday,  today  and  forever." 

A  roar  of  approval  greeted  the  speech  and  the 
somewhat  blasphemous  reference,  but  from  that 
time  on  we  took  the  humorous  view  of  the  situ- 
ation, thereby  saving  ourselves  a  lot  of  misery. 

One  night  at  dinner,  when  our  usual  stew-por- 
tions were  served,  one  of  the  fellows  left  the  table 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  while  he  was  gone  we 
switched  his  soup,  substituting  water,  and  hastily, 
but  thoroughly,  scraped  every  scrap  of  meat  off 
the  bone.  He  came  back,  tasted  of  his  soup,  then 
poured  it  over  the  table.  He  picked  up  his 
soup  bone,  looked  for  the  meat,  and  sent  the  bone 
flying  down  the  cabin.  Unluckily  it  struck  an  of- 
ficer and  he  was  promptly  bundled  into  the  clink 
(guardhouse).  He  was  an  Irishman,  and  on  his 
trial  the  following  morning  he  made  a  thoroughly 
characteristic  defense. 

"Sor,  to  tell  yez  the  thruth,  I  just  happened 
to  think  av  the  athrocities  av  them  damned  Ger- 
mans on  the  helpless  wimen  and  childher,  an'  I 
thought  how  would  I  feel  if  those  near  an'  dear 


CROSSING  THE  ATLANTIC  2? 

to  me  were  threated  in  that  way,  an'  on  the  im- 
pulse av  the  moment,  without  thinkin',  or  lookin', 
I  flung  the  bone,  imaginin'  I  was  right  in  the  mid- 
dle av  the  fightin'." 

It  didn't  save  him,  but  it  cut  off  some  days  from 
his  stay  in  the  clink. 

On  more  than  one  occasion  our  thirst  for  re- 
venge on  the  stew  was  gratified  by  seeing  it  heaved 
all  over  the  floor  by  a  sudden  roll  of  the  boat  in 
rough  weather. 

Our  chief  form  of  entertainment  while  aboard 
ship,  in  addition  to  the  band  concerts,  was  the 
vaudeville  shows  that  were  given.  Among  our 
cosmopolitan  crowd  much  line  talent  was  discov- 
ered—  songs,  readings,  exhibitions  of  juggling, 
boxing  competitions,  etc.  —  served  to  while  away 
the  monoton3'  of  the  voyage  and  make  life  livable 
during  the  crossing. 

Church  services  were  held  regularly  every  Sun- 
day; the  two  denominations  represented  were 
Church  of  England  (Episcopal)  and  Roman 
Catholic.  Mass  was  held  at  eight-thirty  and  the 
Protestant  minister  commenced  his  service  at  ten- 


28 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

thirty,  at  which  were  assembled  all  the  balance  of 
the  battalion.  Although  my  attendance  was  com- 
pulsory, these  services  were  deeply  impressive  and 
will  remain  in  my  memory  as  long  as  I  live.  The 
majestic  ship  ploughing  through  the  water  and  the 
swish  of  the  spray  mingling  with  the  men's  voices 
as  we  sang  the  hymns  we  learned  in  childhood 
made  a  lasting  impression  on  all  of  us,  and  I  am 
sure  that  the  emotion  of  those  moments  has  stayed 
with  every  man  throughout  our  campaign  in 
France  and  since. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LAND  AHOY 

ON  a  beautiful  evening  in  the  fall,  after  a 
voyage  of  twenty-two  days  on  the  water, 
the  transports  quietly  stole,  one  by  one,  into  the 
harbor  of  Plymouth.  None  of  the  townspeople 
had  the  remotest  idea  that  the  Colonials  were  any- 
where near  England,  and  it  was  not  until  the 
Strathcona  Horse  displayed  a  huge  pennant  from 
the  ship,  which  was  anchored  close  to  the  quay, 
that  our  identity  was  disclosed.  It  took  them  but 
a  couple  of  seconds  to  grasp  the  fact  that  the 
Canadians  had  arrived  in  England,  and  in  less 
than  half  an  hour  the  harbor  was  alive  with  every 
conceivable  kind  of  craft,  loaded  near  to  the  sink- 
ing point  with  cheering  humanity. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  my  sensations  as  I  once 
again  looked  upon  the  green  fields  of  my  native 
land.  To  find  out  how  much  one  loves  his  home 
he  must  leave  it,  and  after  my  voluntary  exile  of 

[29] 


30  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

six  or  seven  years,  I  wanted  to  shout  and  sing  for 
very  joy. 

We  English  may  be  dense,  thick-headed,  slow 
to  act,  and  guilty  of  several  other  things  charged 
to  us,  but  I  doubt  if  any  nation  could  love  its 
country  with  more  intensity  than  true  English- 
men. 

Steering  close  to  our  boat  the  crowd  asked  us 
if  we  needed  anything.  We  replied  that  we  needed 
everything,  and  we  got  it;  cigarettes,  tobacco, 
food,  candy  —  in  fact,  everything  that  could  com- 
fort a  soldier's  heart,  was  thrown  on  our  decks. 

I  gazed  at  the  shores  of  my  native  land,  listen- 
ing to  the  strains  of  "O  Canada,"  played  by  the 
band  and  echoed  back  by  the  glorious  hills  of 
Devon,  and  the  thrill  within  me  was  indescribable. 
There  was  also  an  undercurrent  of  wonderful  feel- 
ing that  made  me  proud,  not  only  that  I  was  a 
Britisher,  but  that  our  grim  old  mother-nation 
was  nursing  there  in  one  of  her  great  harbors 
the  robust  manhood  of  a  virile  daughter-nation 
that  had  heard  the  call  and  answered  and  that  I 
was  a  part,  however  small,  of  that  answer. 


LAND  AHOY  31 


Songs  of  the  British  nations  would  go  floating 
out  to  sea  and  inland  to  the  hills.  Following  the 
strains  of  "Annie  Laurie"  would  come  "Men  of 
Harlech,"  "The  British  Grenadiers,"  "Dear  Lit- 
tle Shamrock,"  and  then  the  incomparable  lilt  of 
"Tipperary." 

We  finally  received  the  order  to  disembark. 
Now  it  is  an  unwritten  law  in  the  army,  in  the 
practice  of  that  most  soldierly  art  of  thieving,  that 
a  man  must  thieve  from  every  battalion  and  com- 
pany except  his  own,  and  we  thought  we  might 
just  as  well  start  on  anything  lying  around  loose 
on  the  Lapland.  The  Colonel  may  have  wondered 
why  we  came  to  the  "Present  arms"  with  such 
alacrity  when  we  said  farewell  to  that  splendid 
ship  that  brought  us  over ;  but  the  truth  of  it  was 
we  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  scene  of  our 
activities  before  any  uncomfortable  questions 
could  be  asked. 

After  a  thoroughly  profane  and  good-natured 
farewell  with  the  burly  British  sailors  and  a  rous- 
ing welcome  from  the  people,  we  marched  out  in 
force  to  be  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the  citizens. 


32 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

And  such  a  welcome!  It  beggars  description.  I 
never  had  my  hand  shaken  so  much  and  I  never 
was  kissed  so  much  in  all  my  life. 

One  middle-aged  lady,  with  two  beautiful 
daughters,  exclaimed,  "You  brave  boy,  I  am 
going  to  kiss  you  for  your  mother's  sake."  "  I  will 
too,"  said  her  daughters,  and  I  was  kissed  by  the 
entire  family.  I  couldn't  help  venturing,  "How 
about  a  kiss  for  my  own  sake  ?  "  And  I  glanced  at 
the  daughters.  "Surely,"  said  the  mother,  and 
she  kissed  me  again,  but  the  girls  were  a  little 
bit  abashed  and  did  not  respond  to  my  suggestion, 
much  to  my  disappointment. 

At  one  spot  in  our  welcome  I  was  again  the 
subject  of  an  outburst  of  damnable  sympathy 
from  a  motherly-hearted  woman  who  almost  went 
into  hysterics  at  the  idea  of  such  a  child  as  I  going 
out  to  help  stem  the  on-rushing  Huns.  However, 
my  comrades  were  filled  full  of  the  attentions  they 
were  receiving  from  their  male  and  female  admir- 
ers and  my  predicament  passed  unnoticed  this 
time,  for  which  I  fervently  thanked  God. 

In  the  course  of  our  parade  we  were  taken  in 


LAND  AHOY  33 


front  of  Drake's  monument  and  I  could  not  help 
wondering  what  he  would  have  thought,  had  he 
been  there  in  the  flesh,  at  the  sight  of  those  hardy 
adventurers.  Surely  he  would  have  felt  that  here 
indeed  were  men  after  his  own  heart,  ready  and 
willing  to  dare  everything,  to  go  anywhere  for  the 
sake  of  the  motherland  and  their  own  new  land 
across  the  seas. 

By  sheer  strength  we  reached  the  depot  at  last 
and  entrained  for  Salisbury  Plain. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SALISBURY   PLAIN 

MIDNIGHT,  and  as  dark  as  pitch  found  us 
shivering  and  blinking  sleepily  on  the  plat- 
form of  a  small  railway  station  on  the  outskirts 
of  Salisbury  Plain.  From  here  a  truly  murderous 
hike  blistered  our  feet,  spoiled  our  tempers  and 
proved  to  us  in  no  uncertain  manner  how  stale 
we  had  become  during  our  journey  overseas.  Just 
as  day  dawned  we  floundered  wearily  to  a  place 
where  tents  flapped  sadly  against  tent  poles  as  if 
sympathizing  with  our  woeful  plight.  These 
tents  had  simply  been  erected  and  loosely  staked 
out  and  were  left  for  us  to  tighten  and  make 
habitable.  We  were  too  weary  to  bother  with 
them;  we  simply  dropped  on  the  ground  and  slept 
the  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion. 

When  we  awoke  we  found  ourselves  drenched 
to  the  skin,  our  tents  still  half  erected,  the  com- 

[34l 


SALISBURY  PLAIN  35 

missariat  all  disorganized  and  the  plain  hidden 
in  solid  sheets  of  driving  rain.  This  was  just  a 
prelude  of  the  terrible  days  to  come. 

In  a  day  or  two  we  had  shaken  down,  with 
seven  men  to  each  tent,  and  our  training  began.  A 
brief  spell  of  fine  weather  followed,  with  a  visit 
from  the  late  Lord  Roberts  to  inspect  us.  This 
visit  of  our  great  Little  General  left  me  feeling 
very  comfortable,  as  he  was  fully  an  inch  shorter 
than  myself,  and  it  seemed  to  me  very  wonderful 
that  that  slight,  courteous  old  man  should  be  the 
hero  of  so  many  exploits  in  India,  Afghanistan, 
South  Africa,  and  other  parts  of  the  world.  It 
will  be  remembered  of  him  forever  that  a  few 
years  before  he  had  given  Great  Britain  a  solemn 
warning  of  the  intentions  of  Germany.  With  few 
exceptions  the  newspapers,  the  London  tfimes  in- 
cluded, had  branded  him  a  scare-monger  and 
jingo.  Alas,  how  bitterly  true  was  the  great  little 
man's  prophecy ! 

He  died  a  brief  month  afterwards,  just  as  he 
would  have  wished,  "  in  harness,"  and  among  his 
Indian  comrades  he  loved  so  well. 


36 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Then  the  rains  descended,  the  floods  came,  and 
the  plain  became  one  seething  quagmire  of  mud. 
Words  are  powerless  to  describe  our  continual 
conflict  with  that  mud;  it  was  everywhere  —  in 
our  eyes,  our  hair,  our  tents,  our  clothes,  our  grub ; 
we  often  had  to  swallow  it  as  well  as  wallow  in  it. 
Again  our  poet-wit  got  his  work  in  and  this  was 
our  universal  lament : 

Mud,  mud,  damnable  mud, 

In  mud  we  must  wallow  and  mud  we  must  swallow, 

Mud,  mud,  damnable  mud, 

Oh  say  will  we  ever  get  out  of  the  mud. 

Our  tents  leaked  incessantly,  but  with  all  our 
discomfort  we  were  healthy  and  happy  and,  in 
consequence,  were  grumbling  all  the  time.  We 
roundly  cursed  our  officers,  anathematized  the 
mud,  swore  we  would  mutiny  —  all  done  sotto 
voce.    But  we  were  very,  very  happy. 

And  now,  to  crown  my  happiness,  I  obtained 
leave  to  visit  my  people  in  the  Midlands,  about 
one  hundred  and  thirty  miles  from  the  place.  The 
only  way  I  could  curb  my  impatience  was  by  clean- 
ing and  re-cleaning  my  buttons,  badges  and  boots, 


SALISBURY  PLAIN 37 

and  vainly  endeavoring  to  read  the  newspaper.  At 
last,  I  paraded  before  the  Colonel  and  paymaster 
to  receive  my  pass  and  money,  and  after  satisfying 
the  critical  eye  of  my  commander  that  I  was 
clean  enough  to  be  a  credit  to  the  British  Army,  I 
was  permitted  to  go. 

I  boarded  a  taxi  and  paid  ten  shillings  for  a 
three-mile  ride  to  the  railway  station.  Had  the 
Shylock  asked  four  times  that  amount  I  would 
have  cheerfully  given  it  to  him. 

Only  a  son  who  loves  his  father  and  mother  can 
appreciate  such  a  home  coming  as  I  got;  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  Mother-like,  the  dear  old  lady 
was  thoroughly  dissatisfied  because  I  hadn't  the 
appetite  of  a  dozen  strong  men.  One  of  her  re- 
marks typified  the  English  mother  —  the  peer  of 
any  woman  on  God's  earth  today.  I  asked  what 
she  thought  of  my  journey  over  to  do  my  bit  for 
the  Empire  and  her  reply  was :  "  I  knew  you  would 
come.  I  knew  it.  God  bless  you,  my  boy.  I  hate 
to  think  of  where  you  are  going,  but  I  believe  I 
would  hate  you  more,  my  own  son  as  you  are,  if 
you  did  not  go." 


38  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Such  a  reply  from  a  woman  who  had  already 
given  one  son  for  the  cause  exemplifies  the  spirit 
of  self-sacrifice  which  has  so  splendidly  been  evi- 
denced by  the  women  of  the  Allies  today.  These 
mothers  deserve  the  V.  C.  as  truly  as  any  soldier. 

My  father's  greeting  was  typical  of  the  reserved 
Englishman.  He  looked  up  at  me  without  a  word 
and  just  at  that  moment  my  young  sister  walked 
in  and  stood  beside  him;  the  lassie  was  just  as  tall 
as  I  was  short;  and  my  father's  first  remark  was, 
"  If  you  had  been  as  tall  as  this  girl  is,  you  might 
have  called  yourself  a  soldier."  Such  was  the 
greeting  after  an  absence  of  six  years  and  thus 
does  the  Englishman  cover  up  any  signs  of 
emotion. 

The  time  was  all  too  short  to  see  everyone  I 
wanted  to  see;  my  three  days'  leave  passed  like  an 
hour;  but  practically  all  the  friends  and  chums 
of  my  school  days  were  either  in  France,  on  the 
sea,  or  in  training.  An  athletic  club  to  which  I 
belonged  before  I  left  England  for  Canada  had  a 
total  membership  of  two  hundred,  and  of  this 
number   one   hundred   and   eighty-eight  were   in 


SALISBURY  PLAIN  39 

khaki,  and  even  at  that  early  date  eight  of  them 
had  paid  the  supreme  price. 

Promising  to  come  back  as  soon  as  possible  be- 
fore I  left  for  France  I  said  good-bye  and  com- 
menced my  return  journey,  feeling  very  home- 
sick and  miserable.  But  I  found  a  very  interest- 
ing companion  on  the  way  back,  one  of  the  gallant 
boys  of  French's  "  Contemptibles."  He  was  one 
of  the  few  survivors  of  a  battalion  of  Gloucesters 
and  was  one  of  the  twenty-four  who  held  back 
about  seventy  times  their  number  and  covered  the 
retreat  of  the  remnant  of  their  regiment.  When 
history  is  written  and  the  deeds  of  the  different 
regiments  recorded,  the  wonderful  stand  of  the 
twenty- four  will  go  down  as  an  epoch  of  the  Great 
Retirement. 

Reticent  as  most  British  soldiers  are,  yet  being 
a  comrade,  he  told  me  enough  to  give  me  some 
idea  of  what  we  were  going  into.  Parting  from 
him  at  Bristol,  by  a  strange  coincidence  I  ran  into 
a  corporal  of  the  Second  Battalion  of  Gloucesters. 
This  man  had  just  completed  his  service  with  the 
army  and  had  been  about  a  month  on  reserve  when 


40  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

again  called  out.  He  now  lies  somewhere  in 
France,  for  within  three  weeks  from  this  time  his 
regiment  was  almost  wiped  out. 

While  sitting  in  the  train  I  happened  to  put  my 
head  too  far  out  of  the  car  window  and  away  went 
my  cap.  The  corporal  helped  me  out.  He  dug 
from  his  kit  a  cap  of  a  wonderful  checked  pattern, 
big  black  and  white  squares,  and  gave  it  to  me. 
It  was  staggering  in  its  color  scheme,  but  better 
than  nothing.  Next  morning,  judge  of  my  con- 
sternation when  I  found  it  impossible  to  get  a  cap 
from  the  quartermaster  in  time  to  go  on  parade, 
and  I  was  obliged,  to  go  in  my  beautiful  new  head- 
piece. It  seemed  to  shout  its  color  scheme  from 
end  to  end  of  the  battalion.  Particular^  did  Mor- 
gan make  caustic  comment  on  the  queer  ideas  of 
some  people  as  to  the  proper  head-dress  for  a  sol- 
dier, and  everyone,  from  the  corporal  up  wanted 
to  know  what  in  hell  I  meant  by  coming  on  parade 
with  that  awful  thing  on  my  head. 

Finally  the  Colonel  came  and  ran  his  eye  over 
his  pets.  "Tshun,"  he  roared,  and  everyone 
"tshuned."     A  moment  of  silence  while  the  Old 


SALISBURY  PLAIN 41 

Man  critically  lamped  his  battalion;  then  it 
broke. 

"  Who  is  that  man  who  thinks  he  may  come  on 
parade  in  his  own  ideas  of  fashion4?  Fall  out, 
that  man,  I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

I  sneaked  guiltily  up  to  him,  mentally  noting 
those  of  my  pals  who  snickered  loudest,  and  stood 
dutifully  at  attention.  After  informing  me  that 
in  spite  of  my  looks  I  was  supposed  to  be  a  soldier, 
and  that  although  it  was  the  dearest  wish  of  his 
heart  to  permit  me  to  disgrace  the  battalion,  yet 
he  felt  compelled  to  administer  a  little  correction. 

"  How  came  you  to  be  wearing  that  monstrous 
thing4?" 

I  explained  truthfully,  but  he  insisted  that  I 
had  been  imbibing  and  had  lost  my  cap  as  a  con- 
sequence. That  afternoon,  when  tottering  under 
the  weight  of  sides  of  beef  and  other  heavy  things, 
which  I  was  obliged  to  carry,  I  resolved  that  if  I 
ever  again  lost  my  cap,  I  would  not  be  guilty  of 
wearing  an  alibi. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LIFE  IN   THE   ENGLISH   CAMP 

AFTER  my  first  trip  home,  for  a  few  days  I 
went  about  my  work  without  interest,  but 
when  one  is  in  superb  physical  condition,  it  is  im- 
possible to  be  depressed  long,  and  soon  I  was 
grumbling  away  again  as  happy  as  ever.  Still  the 
wretched  weather  continued.  If  it  did  not  rain, 
it  snowed ;  if  it  did  not  do  one  or  the  other,  it  did 
both;  if  it  did  not  do  both,  a  fog  you  could  take  in 
your  hand  would  hang  over  the  place  the  whole 
day  long.  If  the  Fates  decreed  we  should  have  a 
fine  day,  we  were  worked  till  our  bones  cried  out 
for  rest. 

In  the  early  morning  we  would  curse  the  bugles 
as  they  blared  out  their  warning  for  us  to  be  up 
and  doing.  Sometimes  the  temptation  grew  too 
strong  and  one  of  us  would  be  missing  when  we 
fell  in  shivering  for  our  mornings  physical  tor- 

[42] 


LIFE  IN  THE  ENGLISH  CAMP  43 

ture.  This  is  the  name  the  Canadians  had  for 
physical  drill.  The  tardy  one  would  regret  his  in- 
difference to  "Reveille"  before  the  day  had  well 
begun,  for  he  would  usually  be  told  off  for  all 
fatigues,  as  well  as  turning  out  for  the  day's  work 
with  the  battalion. 

A  vigorous  trot  would  set  our  blood  coursing 
through  our  veins,  and  after  the  torture  had 
loosened  up  our  muscles,  we  wondered  why  we 
had  ever  wanted  to  stay  in  bed  at  all. 

Breakfast  would  follow,  and  after  that  we 
would  fall  in  to  be  inspected  by  the  officers, 
tongue-lashed  by  the  Colonel,  and  finally  marched 
off  for  instruction  in  tactics  on  the  field,  or  other 
necessary  parts  of  an  infantry  soldier's  training. 
We  might  arrive  back  in  time  to  partake  of  a  noon- 
day meal,  or  it  would  perhaps  be  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  or  again  we  might  stay  out  the 
whole  twenty-four  hours. 

Night  alarms  would  see  us  sleepily  but  fran- 
tically struggling  to  don  our  equipment  so  that  we 
would  make  a  record  for  our  company  by  being 
first  at  the  assembling  post.  The  language  on  such 


44 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

occasions  was  almost  the  acme  of  perfection,  be- 
cause our  studies  in  the  army  in  that  regard  had 
brought  us  to  a  truly  wonderful  state  of  efficiency 
in  fluency  and  the  ability  to  improvise  suitable 
words  for  all  occasions. 

One  may  therefore  imagine  the  atmosphere 
when  a  buckle  of  Morgan's  equipment  would  fix 
itself  firmly  in  some  inaccessible  part  of  mine  and 
we  would  struggle  to  straighten  out  the  tangle  by 
the  dim  light  of  a  candle.  Usually  it  would  end 
by  one  of  us  inadvertently  putting  out  the  candle. 
After  this  there  would  be  absolute  silence  as  even 
our  vocabulary  was  not  adequate  to  the  situation. 
With  clenched  teeth  we  would  relight  the  candle, 
if  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  find  it;  if  not,  we 
finished  our  dressing  by  touch,  each  mentally  curs- 
ing the  other  for  his  clumsiness. 

Finally  we  would  stumble  to  the  assembly  post 
to  receive  a  wigging  from  the  O.  C.  (officer  com- 
manding) of  the  company  down.  On  our  way 
back  Morgan  would  tell  me  that  in  all  his  life  he 
had  never  known  one  so  blankety-blank  a  clumsy 
as  I  was,  and  I  would  consign  him  to  everlasting 


LIFE  IN  THE  ENGLISH  CAMP  45 

perdition,  and  the  quarrel  would  wax  hotter  and 
hotter,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  other  boys, 
until  we  arrived  at  the  inevitable  stage  when  the 
challenge  to  fight  is  given.  Then  the  sergeant 
would  step  in,  and  we  would  be  obliged  to  satisfy 
ourselves  by  mentally  vowing  to  settle  it  once  for 
all  when  we  got  back  to  camp.  However,  the  ex- 
citement and  fatigue  would  soon  cool  our  tempers, 
and  the  usual  sequel  was  for  the  two  of  us  to  be 
found  foraging  in  some  mutual  enemy's  camp,  or 
we  would  settle  down,  cuddled  in  one  another's 
arms,  for  a  long  refreshing  sleep. 

At  the  remount  camp,  situated  about  two  miles 
from  our  own  camp,  were  a  number  of  unbroken 
horses;  these  were  used  as  remounts  for  artillery, 
cavalry,  transports,  etc.  Every  day  two  or  more 
companies  from  the  battalion  were  told  off  as 
"  Remount  fatigue  "  and  had  to  clean  and  groom 
the  animals,  and  one  day  shortly  after  this,  when 
it  was  part  of  my  duty  to  assist  in  taking  a  load 
of  provisions  for  the  men  who  were  looking  after 
the  horses,  we  came  upon  a  wondrous  object,  lying* 
resplendent  in  all  its  native  beauty,  by  the  side  of 


46 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  road.  Hardly  believing  our  eyes,  we  bore 
down  upon  the  stranger.  It  was  real,  and  we 
rejoiced.  Thirty-six  gallons  of  good  beer  had 
wandered  away  from  a  jolting  wagon.  After  sev- 
eral vain  efforts,  in  which  we  nearly  ruptured 
ourselves  with  straining,  we  finally  succeeded  in 
hoisting  it  on  our  transport.  It  was  necessary  to 
resort  to  "camouflage"  to  hide  our  treasure,  but  it 
was  done.  The  day  passed  slowly,  as  we  curried 
and  brushed  that  kicking,  squealing  mass.  We 
were  tortured  with  fear  lest  any  of  the  others 
should  discover  our  find.  As  expert  thieves  we 
respected  others  of  the  craft,  and  in  this  case  we 
feared  them. 

Night  came,  and  to  our  relief,  our  cask  had  not 
been  unearthed.  That  night  figures  might  have 
been  discerned  in  the  gloom,  stealthily  making 
their  way  to  a  certain  big  marquee.  Inside  this 
marquee  was  stacked  bales  of  hay  and  other  feed 
for  the  transport  animals. 

By  the  dim  light  of  two  stable  lanterns  we  paid 
our  respects  to  the  delightful  stranger  until  we 
had   exhausted   its   hospitality,    and   at    "Lights 


LIFE  IN  THE  ENGLISH  CAMP  47 

out"  we  tacked  homewards,  after  an  affectionate 
farewell  to  one  another. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  excuse  myself,  or  the 
others,  but  perhaps  we  may  be  forgiven  when  I 
tell  you  that  on  Salisbury  Plain  we  endured  the 
most  frightful  weather  conditions.  Add  to  this 
our  isolation  from  anyone  but  soldiers,  and  the 
entire  absence  of  amusement  except  what  we 
manufactured  ourselves,  and  some  toleration  may 
be  vouchsafed  us.  If  those  boys  let  loose  occa- 
sionally, they  also  blocked  the  road  to  Calais,  and 
many  forget  this  when  criticizing  the  men,  who  not 
only  faced  hell  in  France  and  Flanders,  but  cheer- 
fully fore-went  almost  all  the  advantages  that 
later  contingents  enjoyed  while  in  training. 

On  a  soaking  wet  night  a  few  of  us  tramped 
over  the  plains  to  our  new  homes  and  huts,  which 
had  been  given  us  in  substitution  for  the  tents. 
For  some  reason  hut  life  told  on  the  health  of  the 
boys  and  that  terrible  scourge,  cerebral  spinal 
meningitis  broke  out,  and  soon  many  were  in- 
fected. For  myself,  I  never  contracted  anything 
but  a  trick  of  getting  into  trouble.     Still  the  rain 


48 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

descended  and  the  mud  deepened.  It  was  in  the 
hut  that  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  our  comrades 
helped  to  amuse  us.  Big  Bill  Skerry  and  young 
Fitzpatrick  had  struck  up  a  close  friendship  with 
each  other,  although  Bill  was  about  double  the 
age  of  Fitz.  At  intervals  three  solitary  long  hairs 
would  appear  amongst  the  down  on  Fitz's  chin, 
then  Bill  would  declare  it  was  time  Fitz  had  a 
shave,  and  he  would  seize  his  young  friend,  and  a 
mighty  struggle  would  ensue,  but  it  usually  ended 
by  Bill  clipping  off  the  three  sisters  —  Faith, 
Hope  and  Charity,  as  someone  called  them. 

Another  fellow,  Bolous,  whom  we  had  with  us, 
was  the  butt  of  much  of  our  wicked  horse-play. 
This  strange  being  worked,  ate  and  slept  with  an 
automatic  colt  attached  to  his  belt.  For  the  sake 
of  soldier  critics,  I  may  say  he  kept  it  under  cover 
on  parade,  but  it  never  left  him.  Naturally  we 
asked  him  when  he  expected  to  meet  the  guy  who 
was  looking  for  him.  Many  an  attempt  was  made 
to  steal  that  gun,  but  no  matter  how  soundly  he 
slept,  the  slightest  movement  or  touch  near  him 
would  bring  him  to  a  sitting  position,  with  the 


LIFE  IN  THE  ENGLISH  CAMP  49 

automatic  on  a  dead  line  for  the  would-be  thief's 
head.  He  had  never  been  in  England  before,  and 
we  romanced  to  him  so  earnestly  about  the  deni- 
zens of  Whitechapel,  that  on  his  first  visit  to  Lon- 
don, instead  of  just  his  one  automatic,  he  evened 
up  matters  by  wearing  one  on  the  other  side,  and 
stalked  down  Whitechapel,  armed  to  the  teeth. 

This  man  was  deeply  interested  in  bayonet 
fighting,  and  would  question  our  instructors  until 
they  loathed  the  sight  of  him.  He  studied  the 
matter  from  all  angles  and  would  endeavor  to  get 
the  man  next  to  him  to  act  the  part  of  an  attacking 
Hun  in  order  to  show  us  his  own  method  of  ren- 
dering Fritz  hors  de  combat.  Nobody  ever  volun- 
teered as  there  is  no  knowing  what  he  would  have 
done  in  his  eagerness  to  spit  something  with  that 
bayonet.  He  devoured  all  that  he  could  find  in 
drill  books  about  "  Hun  Sticking."  He  was  par- 
ticularly nerve  trying  at  night,  when  we  hob- 
nobbed at  cards  or  were  reading  before  "Lights 
out."  Everything  would  be  quiet,  except  for  the 
low  murmur  of  conversation  and  an  occasional 
heartfelt  oath  from  a  loser  in  the  poker  party.  Then 


50  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

suddenly  we  would  almost  jump  out  of  our  skins, 
as  a  figure  hurled  itself  at  the  rifle  rack,  seized  a  rifle 
from  the  stand,  fixed  the  bayonet  and  rushed  up 
and  down  the  hut  furiously  parrying  and  lunging 
at  an  imaginary  foe.  Oblivious  of  everything  ex- 
cept dispatching  the  figurative  German,  he  would 
rush  here  and  there  while  we  endeavored  to  avoid 
the  flickering  steel.  The  man  was  enormously 
strong,  and  agile  as  a  cat,  and  all  we  could  do  was 
to  dodge  as  well  as  we  could  until  his  paroxysm 
passed  and  he  had  settled  down  to  work  out  some 
other  scheme  for  Boche  killing. 

We  swore  we  would  murder  him  if  he  did  not 
cease  these  imitations  of  a  madman,  but  glad  are 
we  all  who  knew  him  that  we  took  his  wild  be- 
havior good  naturedly,  for  a  very  short  time  after- 
wards he  performed  deeds  of  the  most  self-sacrific- 
ing kind  under  a  wall  of  shell  fire.  Not  a  few  men 
owe  their  lives  today  to  his  devotion  to  duty  on 
that  awful  day  at  Ypres. 

One  night  I  was  guilty  of  a  betrayal  of  trust. 
I  was  detailed  to  watch  some  carloads  of  coal  that 
stood  in  a  siding.     My  trick  (sentry-go)   lasted 


LIFE  IN  THE  ENGLISH  CAMP  51 

from  four  to  eight  in  the  morning.  The  rain  was 
tumbling  down  as  I  floundered  through  the  ooze 
to  relieve  the  other  sentry.  After  the  sergeant  of 
the  guard  had  gone,  I  felt  really  miserable.  There 
was  only  one  place  where  I  could  stand  with  any 
degree  of  comfort  and  this  was  a  sort  of  a  step  that 
stood  up  a  few  inches  above  the  surrounding  sea  of 
mud,  like  a  tiny  rock  in  a  swamp  of  brown  colored 
soup.  Balancing  myself  precariously  on  this  for- 
lorn hope,  I  thought  I  would  pass  the  time  by  sing- 
ing softly  to  myself.  This  seemed  to  bring  the 
rain  down  with  redoubled  force  so  I  stopped  and 
took  to  cursing  instead.  Then  the  disaster  came. 
I  was  gazing  through  the  murk  at  nothing  when  a 
desire  to  stretch  overtook  me;  I  did  so  and  the 
rifle  overbalanced  me.  After  several  wild  at- 
tempts to  regain  my  balance,  I  floundered  face 
down  into  the  quagmire  below.  When  I  had  par- 
tially digested  the  highly  flavored  mud,  I  ad- 
dressed my  surroundings  with  much  feeling. 

It  was  useless  now  to  bother  about  trying  to 
keep  dry,  as  I  was  seeping  wet  through,  so  I  stood 
and  watched  the  liquid  mass  swirling  around  me 


52 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

and  the  water  flapping  at  my  knees.  I  could  see 
dimly  by  the  light  of  a  sputtering  electric  light  at 
one  corner  of  the  car. 

Slowly  the  time  passed  till  I  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance very  faintly  the  bugles  at  headquarters 
sounding  "  Reveille."  This  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
pressive things  I  have  ever  heard  —  the  reveille 
at  dawn  and  the  last  post  at  night.  Away  in  the 
distance  the  first  notes  would  steal  faintly  across 
the  plain,  each  succeeding  camp  would  take  it  up, 
until  it  reached  us,  then  our  own  massed  bugles 
would  blare  it  out  in  one  swelling  din.  From  us 
it  would  pass  to  the  next  camp,  until  it  died  away 
as  faintly  as  it  had  begun.  Thus  were  fifty  thou- 
sand men  awakened  from  their  slumbers,  or  hur- 
ried to  them,  during  the  winter  of  1914. 

Heaving  a  deep  sigh  of  mingled  appreciation 
of  the  music  and  disgust  at  my  physical  discom- 
fort, I  turned  once  more  to  studying  the  quagmire. 
Suddenly  I  was  aroused  by  a  gruff  voice  in  a 
Cockney  accent.  It  was  a  man  of  the  big  crowd 
of  civilians,  chiefly  men  unfit  for  the  army,  who 
worked  at  different  occupations  in  and  around  the 


LIFE  IN  THE  ENGLISH  CAMP  53 

camp.  By  the  light  I  saw  a  little  weazened-up 
man  holding  two  coal  scuttles. 

"  I  say,  mate,  could  I  'ave  a  couple  of  scuttles 
of  coal'?" 

"No,  you  can't,"  I  replied,  "beat  it." 

The  little  man  stood  his  ground  and  I  was  glad 
of  it,  because  here  was  someone  to  quarrel  with, 
and  I  would  gladly  have  quarreled  with  my  own 
father  at  that  moment  after  my  night  of  shivering. 
However,  there  was  to  be  no  scrap.  Just  as  I 
came  within  striking  distance  he  opened  his  coat 
and  displayed  a  flat  bottle: 

"Loike  a  drink,  guv?" 

I  eyed  the  bottle  for  a  second. 

"How  much  is  in  it4?"  I  asked. 

"She's  full." 

Alas  poor,  frail  humanity;  my  mind  was  made 
up  in  an  instant.  "You  can  take  the  bloomin'  car 
if  you'll  give  me  the  bottle." 

"Righto,"  said  he;  "I  only  want  a  couple  of 
scuttles-full,  but  yer  can  'ave  the  bottle." 

My  stomach  was  empty,  my  clothes  were 
soaked,    I    was    wet    and    chilled    through    and 


54  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

through,  but  when  my  relief  came  I  was  supremely 
content  with  my  lot.  The  sergeant  sniffed 
suspiciously,  but  I  held  my  tongue  and  bottle  both. 
A  few  nights  following  the  above  I  experienced 
one  of  those  unforgetable  sensations  that  men 
have  at  one  time  or  another  in  their  lives.  A  very 
old  and  dear  friend  of  mine,  a  veteran  of  a  former 
campaign,  had  enlisted  with  the  Princess  Pats  and 
the  first  opportunity  I  had  I  searched  him  out  at 
the  camp  of  the  Pats.  Returning  home  across  the 
hills  to  our  own  camp  I  suddenly  became  aware 
of  the  roll  of  men's  voices  singing  an  old  familiar 
hymn.  The  wind  blowing  in  my  direction  carried 
the  sound  even  above  the  swish  of  the  rain ;  in  fact, 
the  solemnity  of  it  all  was  intensified  by  the  steady 
swish  of  the  downpour.  Every  evening  men  by 
the  thousands  congregated  in  our  only  place  of 
recreation,  the  huge  Y.  M.  C.  A.  marquee,  and  on 
this  evening  they  were  singing  that  old  favorite 
of  all  civilization,  "Nearer,  My  God  to  Thee." 
It  sounded  like  a  mighty  requiem. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GETTING  READY  TO  GO 

MY  second  leave  arrived.  Being  issued  with 
a  new  uniform,  my  buttons  and  badges 
burnished  as  bright  as  elbow  grease  and  metal 
paste  could  make  them,  I  flattered  myself  I  made 
a  most  soldierly  figure  as  I  stepped  out  with  the 
rest,  en  route  for  Amesbury  station.  The  major, 
knowing  his  boys,  gave  us  a  word  of  warning.  He 
held  forth  on  the  nearness  of  the  time  when  we 
would  be  wanted  to  hold  the  thin  line  over  the 
channel.  The  warning  was  a  hint  to  be  back  on 
time  or  results  unpleasant  would  follow.  This 
did  not  prevent  me  taking  an  extra  day  or  so. 

This  was  to  be  the  last  I  saw  of  my  people  be- 
fore embarking  on  the  final  stage  of  the  game  and 
the  time  passed  all  too  quickly.  On  the  day  of 
my  final  leave-taking  not  one  shadow  of  sorrow 
was  portrayed  on  mother's  face.    On  the  contrary, 

[55] 


56 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

she  resorted  to  an  old  English  custom  that  has 
been  handed  down  for  generations :  after  my  last 
kiss  and  embrace  she  waved  a  cheery  adieu  and 
grabbing  an  old  shoe  that  she  had  prepared  for 
the  moment  she  flung  it  after  me  with  the  time 
immemorial  expression,  "Good  Luck  and  God- 
speed." 

I  held  the  tears  back  until  I  was  well  out  of 
sight  and  then  my  pent-up  feelings  gave  way  and 
I  let  them  freely  flow.  The  memory  of  that  fare- 
well has  supported  me  and  given  me  strength  to 
undergo  what  sometimes  seems  impossible  when  I 
look  back  over  it  all.  My  youngest  sister,  Edith, 
displayed  the  same  bravery  of  spirit  and  main- 
tained a  brightness  and  a  cheeriness  which  I  well 
know  she  was  far  from  feeling.  Blessed  indeed 
are  we  in  our  women  and  girls. 

My  return  journey  was  in  the  company  of  an- 
other of  the  British-Canadians  from  my  own  vil- 
lage. At  London  we  crammed  ourselves  into  a 
carriage  crowded  with  khaki-clad  humanity,  and 
a  furious  argument  arose  as  to  what  constituted  a 
real  Canadian.    Hot  and  hotter  it  grew  until  we 


GETTING  READY  TO  GO 57 

steamed  into  the  little  depot,  and  it  was  only  set- 
tled when  a  stalwart  Canuck  volunteered  to  knock 
hell  out  of  any  man  in  the  whole  damned  army 
who  said  he  wasn't  a  Canadian. 

On  arriving  at  the  door  of  my  former  hut  I 
found  it  barred  and  the  boys  inside  told  me  to 
seek  other  quarters  as  the  spinal  meningitis  had 
at  last  reached  our  abode.  I  entered  the  next  hut 
and  found  it  filled  with  my  chums  who  had  re- 
turned from  leave,  all  feeling  somewhat  dismal, 
and  we  cast  ourselves  down  wherever  we  could 
and  dreamt  about  home  till  morning. 

As  before,  my  low  spirits  soon  faded  and  I 
skipped  about  as  usual.  Now  began  a  period  of 
intensive  training,  chiefly  bayonet  practice.  Mus- 
ketry, route  marching,  bayonet  fighting,  and  target 
practice  all  took  up  our  time,  and  such  games  as 
football  and  baseball  served  to  keep  the  men 
supple. 

On  New  Year's  eve  we  celebrated  and  the  of- 
ficers closed  their  eyes  for  awhile,  and  the  men 
took  full  advantage  of  their  temporary  blindness. 
In  our  hut,  story  and  song  floated  more  or  less 


58  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

musically  into  the  mist  outside.  The  evening 
finished  with  a  speech  from  one  huge  fellow,  which 
he  insisted  on  making  in  spite  of  our  protest,  and 
to  emphasize  his  oratorical  points,  he  seized  the 
object  nearest  to  him  which  happened  to  be  me, 
and  taking  me  by  the  coat  collar  and  the  leg,  he 
drove  home  his  points  by  thumping  me,  rear  end 
downward,  on  the  table.  That  was  another  time 
in  my  life  when  the  way  of  the  small  man  was 
hard,  and  the  trouble  of  it  was  the  table  was 
harder. 

Although  I  suffered  somewhat  by  reason  of  my 
short  stature,  nature  evened  things  up  by  giving 
me  a  stamina  which  nothing  seemed  to  hurt.  In 
consequence,  I  was  always  chosen  to  be  one  of  the 
party  who  paraded  before  the  doctor  every  few 
days  in  order  to  show  the  doctor  that  there  was 
nothing  very  seriously  wrong  with  our  battalion, 
because  the  men  were  afraid  we  would  be  left  be- 
hind when  the  contingent  went  to  France  owing 
to  the  amount  of  sickness  in  our  bunch. 

Policemen,  whether  civil  or  military,  are  ever 
the  abomination  of  a  libertv  loving  soldierv  and 


GETTING  READY  TO  GO 59 

throughout  the  camp  they  were  always  on  the 
lookout  for  offenders.  However,  on  Salisbury 
Plain  it  was  comparatively  easy  to  avenge  one- 
self on  the  M.  P.'s.  (military  police).  At  night, 
after  "Lights  out"  these  officious  guardians  of  the 
peace  would  be  on  the  look-out  for  any  of  the 
boys  who  had  stayed  out  too  long,  and  who  were 
dodging  the  sentries.  On  a  stormy  night,  with 
their  coat  collars  turned  up  to  their  ears  and 
leaning  against  the  storm,  they  would  be  walking 
on  the  chalk  walks  on  each  side  of  which  stretched 
the  sea  of  mud.  The  avenger  usually  prepared 
his  attack  by  donning  a  pair  of  rubber  boots,  and 
stealing  up  behind  the  unsuspecting  policeman 
until  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  he  would  step  off 
into  the  mud  on  the  storm  side  of  the  M.  P.  and 
deliver  a  blow  with  all  the  pent-up  feelings  of 
an  aggrieved  soldier  behind  it  and  into  the  mud 
would  topple  the  unlucky  policeman.  The  Ca- 
nadian idea  of  discipline  had  not  yet  become  accli- 
mated to  the  stern  routine  of  the  Imperial  Army. 


o 


CHAPTER  X 

LEAVING    FOR    FRANCE 

UR  work  was  harder  now  than  ever;  not  a 
moment  was  lost  in  whipping  us  into  shape 
for  the  Great  Game  and  our  nerves  were  becom- 
ing more  tense  each  day.  The  final  event  before 
leaving  was  a  review  of  the  men  in  the  presence 
of  the  King  and  Queen,  Earl  Kitchener,  and  other 
distinguished  guests,  as  well  as  our  kin-folk  from 
all  parts  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  and  the 
Dominions  beyond  the  seas. 

Morning  broke  with  the  usual  drizzle  of  rain, 
which  happily  stopped  later  on,  giving  us  instead 
a  very  fine  day.  We  filed  out  to  the  parade 
ground,  a  distance  of  about  two  miles.  The  High- 
landers had  arrived  before  us  and  a  splendid  sight 
they  made.  Standing  at  ease  on  the  slope  of  a 
gently  rising  hill,  their  khaki  aprons  having  been 

discarded  for  the  occasion,  they  made  a  wonderful 

[60] 


LEAVING  FOR  FRANCE 61 

splash  of  color  on  the  dull  landscape.  Tall,  lithe 
fellows  for  the  most  part,  they  looked  the  beau 
ideal  of  the  British  soldier.  There  seemed  to  be 
an  air  of  dashing  gallantry  about  them  that  was 
irresistible.  Making  the  air  hideous  with  their 
terrific  skirling,  the  pipes  droned  and  squealed 
their  defiance  of  everything  non-Scotch.  The 
pipes  were  decorated  with  long  colored  streamers 
of  the  same  pattern  as  the  kilts  and  plaids  of  their 
owners.  The  pipers  themselves  were  men  of  un- 
usually fine  physique,  and  surely  Scotland  and 
Canada  would  have  felt  proud  to  have  seen  the 
brave  sight. 

In  spite  of  our  dislike  for  the  pipes  there  was  an 
indescribable  lilt  to  the  music  that  seemed  to  get 
into  our  feet,  and  shoulders  were  thrown  back  and 
two  thousand  feet  swung  as  one.  In  this  fashion 
we  arrived  on  the  ground  allotted  to  us  for  the 
parade.  After  the  usual  movement  for  placing 
troops  in  review  order  we  stood  in  ranks  in  platoon 
formation,  two  by  two,  one  behind  the  other. 

The  royal  party  not  having  arrived  we  stood  at 
ease  and  had  time  to  take  in  our  surroundings. 


62  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  line  after  line  of  in- 
fantry stretched  up  the  gently  sloping  hill.  A 
massed  band  at  our  immediate  rear  did  much  to 
give  one  a  curious  feeling  of  elation.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  sight.  The  huge  Union  Jack  directly 
to  our  front  surmounting  the  reviewing  platform 
streamed  grandly  out  in  the  breeze  that  was  stead- 
ily blowing  across  the  plain.  A  curious  contrast 
between  the  dull  drab  of  the  ordinary  infantry 
and  the  gay  attire  of  the  Highlanders  struck  me 
most  forcibly.  To  our  right  the  artillery  in  per- 
fect formation  seemed  to  stand  like  figures  of 
adamant;  there  seemed  something  sinister  and 
threatening  in  the  dull  color  and  lean  appearance 
of  the  guns. 

Immediately  to  their  rear,  reminding  us  of  the 
wrath  to  come,  stood  the  stretcher  bearers  of  the 
medical  service. 

At  last  the  puffing  of  a  train  was  heard  and  we 
knew  that  our  royal  visitors  had  arrived.  The 
King,  Lord  Kitchener,  and  other  prominent  sol- 
diers and  statesmen  stepped  off  the  train.  The 
band  crashed  out  the  first  bars  of  the  national 


LEAVING  FOR  FRANCE  63 

anthem,  a  quick  command  to  us,  "  Present  arms," 
a  movement,  and  all  was  still  except  for  the  roll- 
ing of  the  anthem  across  the  plain,  and  then 
silence  once  more. 

The  King  shook  hands  with  the  officers  and  the 
inspection  began.  This  was  the  second  time  I  had 
seen  his  majesty,  but  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  am 
a  loyal  Britisher,  I  was  much  more  interested  in  the 
martial  figure  by  his  side;  this  was  the  man  who 
at  that  time  held  the  defense  of  Britain's  military 
forces  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  I  had  read  that 
Lord  Kitchener  was  an  inscrutable  man,  never 
known  to  smile ;  it  was  a  fiction;  he  smiled  genially 
at  us  all.  But  those  keen,  dark  eyes  did  not  miss 
one  single  detail  of  the  men  in  front  of  him.  My 
sensation  as  he  passed  in  front  of  me  was  that  he 
was  looking  straight  through  me  into  the  man 
at  my  rear.  No  word  of  approval  or  otherwise  did 
the  renowned  soldier  utter,  but  I  think  he  was 
pleased  by  the  stalwart  physique  and  the  soldierly 
bearing  of  the  boys.  After  they  had  duly  in- 
spected our  ranks,  they  took  their  places  on  the 
saluting  platform  and  the  march  past  began,  every 


64  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

arm  of  the  service  being  represented  in  its  order. 
At  the  word,  the  artillery  sprang  into  life  and 
thundering  down  the  slope  at  a  mad  gallop,  they 
slowed  gradually  down  and  the  horses  walked, 
as  proudly  as  horses  ever  did,  past  the  saluting 
base. 

Next  the  cavalry,  the  men  with  their  swords 
at  the  carry,  trotted  by.  A  gallant  sight  they 
made  with  their  Stetson  hats  and  long  yellow 
cloaks.  The  coats  of  horses  perfectly  groomed 
shone  in  the  sun  like  satin  and  made  a  picture  that 
was  never  surpassed  by  anything  of  the  kind  in 
the  days  when  "  Knighthood  was  in  Flower." 

Then  came  the  first  battalion  of  infantry  and 
before  I  could  notice  more  we,  ourselves,  had 
started  to  march  past.  The  band  struck  up  a  mar- 
tial air  and  four  thousand  feet,  keeping  perfect 
time,  made  the  ground  echo  with  their  tread.  My 
own  battalion  swung  past  the  royal  party  with  a 
lilt  in  its  step  that  thrilled  one  through  and 
through,  and  at  the  order  "  Eyes  right"  every  head 
turned  like  clockwork.  The  old  Fifth  certainly 
made  a  gallant  showing  that  day. 


LEAVING  FOR  FRANCE 65 

Immediately  after  the  review,  line  after  line 
of  infantry  arranged  itself  on  each  side  of  the 
track,  and  as' the  train  bearing  our  distinguished 
visitors  steamed  through,  a  roar  of  cheering  echoed 
and  re-echoed  away  over  the  plain. 

From  then  until  our  departure  for  the  front 
each  day's  work  was  an  unusually  strenuous  course 
of  bayonet  practice.  Day  after  day  we  system- 
atically stabbed  and  parried  at  sacks  lying  in 
trenches  and  hung  up  on  poles  till  we  saw  nothing 
but  bayonets  in  our  waking  hours  and  dreamt  of 
nothing  else  in  our  sleep.  One  encouraging  thing 
our  instructors  used  to  tell  us  when  they  would 
fluently  express  their  disgust  at  our  poor  showing 
was,  "Well,  never  mind,  two-thirds  of  you  will 
never  get  up  far  enough  to  use  them  blinkin' 
baynits." 

One  sunny  afternoon  in  early  February,  we  re- 
ceived the  order  to  leave  behind  all  surplus  bag- 
gage and  to  burn  all  refuse  and  waste  matter  and 
leave  the  camp  in  perfectly  sanitary  condition. 
This  done  we  paraded  for  miles  in  full  marching 
order,  loaded  like  mules.     Hardened  as  we  were 


66  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

by  our  recent  workouts,  the  strain  was  terrible, 
even  when  we  were  standing,  while  the  Old  Man 
inspected  us. 

At  last  the  order  to  march  was  given  and  we 
knew  that  this  time  we  were  really  going  into  the 
game.  A  grueling  tramp  of  about  an  hour  and 
we  reached  Amesbury.  Again  the  rain  was  com- 
ing down  and  we  were  soaked  as  we  stood  waiting 
for  the  train. 

At  this  point  an  unusual  difficulty  confronted 
the  keeper  of  one  of  our  soldiers,  a  recruit  named 
Private  Billy.  Billy  in  his  early  days  had  jumped 
from  crag  to  crag  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  had 
been  brought  down  to  Valcartier  and,  in  spite  of 
having  very  prominent  veins  in  his  legs,  he  passed 
the  doctor,  and  he  was  the  only  one  of  our  bat- 
talion who  ever  appeared  on  parade  without  being 
punished  for  not  shaving.  Billy  had  duly  marched 
as  was  his  wont  in  front  of  the  battalion,  when,  to 
the  consternation  of  the  boys,  the  Colonel  swore, 
as  is  the  divine  right  of  a  colonel,  that  the  goat 
must  be  left  behind.  Here  was  a  real  difficulty. 
We  could  not  part  with  Billy;  the  boys  argued 


LEAVING  FOR  FRANCE 67 

that  we  could  easily  get  another  colonel  but  it  was 
too  far  to  the  Rocky  Mountains  to  get  another 
goat. 

The  difficulty  was  solved  by  buying  a  huge  crate 
of  oranges  from  an  old  woman  who  was  doing  a 
brisk  trade  with  the  boys.  The  oranges  sold  like 
hot  cakes  and  in  a  jiffy  the  orange  box  was  con- 
verted into  a  crate  and  Billy  was  shanghaied  into 
the  crate  and  smuggled  on  board  the  train.  Poor 
Billy !  for  three  days  and  nights  he  simply  existed 
in  that  horrible  crate  on  board  train  and  on  trans- 
port ship. 

Billy,  the  goat,  is  still  going  strong  and  it  is  the 
boast  of  the  Fifth  that  Kaiser  Wilhelm  has  not 
yet  "got  their  goat."  Bill  is  a  goat  to  be  proud 
of.  When  the  battalion  was  drawn  up  in  review 
order  and  strictly  at  attention,  no  soldier  ever 
stood  more  erect.  He  would  stand  with  the  trans- 
port, all  four  legs  firmly  braced  on  the  ground, 
his  head  held  high,  without  a  flicker  or  a  move- 
ment. His  only  weakness  was  a  fondness  for 
canteen  beer  that  was  unequaled  by  our  most  sea- 
soned toper.     Luckily  for  him,  beer  was  hard  to 


68  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

get.  The  boys  were  so  amused  at  his  side-splitting 
antics  when  in  his  "cups"  that  they  were  forever 
treating  him. 

Billy,  however,  like  most  ne'er-do-wells,  was  a 
valiant  soldier,  and  greatly  distinguished  himself 
at  YpreSo  In  that  immortal  death  struggle,  Bill 
remained  with  his  friends  clear  through.  He  was 
seriously  wounded  and  I  think  the  wound  was  in 
his  back.  The  old  fellow  was  tenderly  nursed  and 
eventually  returned  to  duty  with  the  rank '  of 
sergeant. 

He  was  reduced  to  the  ranks  in  a  few  days  for 
when  on  duty  near  brigade  headquarters  he  cas- 
ually walked  in  and  chewed  up  the  nominal  roll. 

Promotion  soon  came  his  way  again,  and  Bill, 
today,  a  veteran  of  a  dozen  mighty  battles, 
worthily  upholds  the  traditions  of  the  Fifth,  while 
his  name  is  entered  on  the  roll  as  Sergeant  Bill. 

The  story  of  Billy,  the  goat,  may  be  read  in 
detail  by  anyone  who  cares  to  send  for  Canada  in 
Khaki,  a  book  published  in  England  on  the  doings 
of  Canadians  in  Flanders. 

Our  departure  was  typical  of  the  grim  times  — 


LEAVING  FOR  FRANCE 69 

no  band  playing,  no  fond  farewell,  just  a  stealing 
away  in  the  night.  Our  own  relatives  did  not 
know  we  had  arrived  in  France  until  they  received 
their  first  letters  from  us. 

We  arrived  in  the  early  morning,  still  dark,  at 
the  seaport  town  of  A — in  the  Bristol  channel. 
Next  day  we  steamed  out,  passing  Land's  End, 
still  southwards,  and  in  a  curve  up  through  the 
Bay  of  Biscay  and  dropped  anchor  in  the  bay  of 
a  certain  port  in  Brittany.  During  this  trip  our 
attachment  to  the  fiends  that  take  refuge  in  the 
seams  of  a  man's  shirt  was  closer  than  ever.  We 
slept  where  we  could  and  passed  the  days  huddled 
together  on  the  lower  deck  of  the  old  cattle  barge, 
for  she  was  nothing  else.  Mighty  games  of  poker 
whiled  away  the  time.  The  boys  already  imbued 
with  the  fatalistic  spirit  of  the  true  British  sol- 
dier, argued  that  fate  was  so  uncertain  that  while 
they  lived  and  had  money,  why  not  risk  it,  and 
the  chief  gamblers  went  the  limit  with  all  their 
worldly  wealth. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LANDING  IN  FRANCE 

THE  battle  song  of  the  British  Army,  "Tip- 
perary,"  which  was  made  imperishable  by 
the  men  who  died  at  Mons  and  the  Marne,  was 
the  first  sound  that  rang  in  our  ears  as  our  ship 
drew  up  to  the  landing.  It  was  a  beautiful  day, 
for  spring  had  already  begun  to  blossom  in  that 
part  of  the  country,  although  when  we  hit  the 
firing  line  it  was  still  dead  winter,  and  the  scenery 
in  France  was  disclosed  to  perfection  that  day. 

The  song  was  being  sung  by  French  children 
in  excellent  English  who  congregated  in  hundreds 
on  the  quay  to  see  the  Canadian  soldiers  disem- 
bark, and  I  don't  think  a  finer  set  of  boys  ever 
set  foot  in  France  than  Canada's  first  contingent. 

Little  did  we  think  that  in  two  short  months 
more  than  half  of  us  would  be  dead,  dying  and 
shot  to  pieces. 

[70] 


LANDING  IN  FRANCE 71 

A  storm  of  cheering  rent  the  air  as  our  ship 
was  moored  to  the  dock.  Oranges,  bananas, 
grapes  and  fruit  of  every  description  were  thrown 
to  us,  to  which  we  replied  by  sending  over  but- 
tons, badges,  etc.,  these  "Souvenirs  Canadian" 
being  literally  fought  for  by  the  crowd. 

One  stalwart  Frenchman  earned  our  undying 
gratitude  by  catching  our  company  commander 
squarely  on  the  side  of  the  face  with  a  nice  plump 
orange.  It  landed  with  a  lovely  stinging  smack 
and  spread  itself  most  luxuriantly  over  his  capa- 
cious mug.  Those  who  had  been  recipients  of  the 
numerous  punishments  dealt  out  for  our  misdeeds 
chuckled  quietly  and  nudged  each  other  in  unholy 
glee. 

We  were  no  sooner  safely  docked  than  —  to 
work.  Winches  groaned  as  if  in  protest,  as  they 
hauled  guns,  ammunition  and  other  impedimenta 
of  a  division  on  active  service.  Fatigue  parties 
sweated  and  cursed  as  they  stumbled  backwards 
and  forwards  on  and  off  the  ship.  Every  man 
had  his  work  to  do,  and  long  before  daylight 
everything  was  ready  for  our  departure  north. 


-J2  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  issued 
goatskin  coats,  mittens  and  gloves,  and  inspected 
by  the  O.  C.  The  order  came  to  march,  and  in 
heavy  marching  order,  we  trudged  to  the  depot. 
This  marching  order  consists  of  rifle  and  bayonet 
attached  to  braces,  which  in  turn  are  attached  by 
self-locking  buckles  to  the  belt,  the  knapsack  or 
valise  which  usually  contains  a  shaving  kit,  towel, 
soap,  change  of  underwear,  socks,  one  pair  of 
boots,  mess  tin,  and  any  other  little  convenience 
you  may  wish  to  carry.  Later  on  we  learned  by 
bitter  experience  to  dispense  with  everything 
except  absolute  necessities. 

The  aforesaid  goatskin  coats  were  a  gift  from 
the  then  Czar  of  Russia  and  were  supposed  to 
have  come  from  China.  When  we  had  donned 
our  gift  coats  there  was  a  perceptible  murmur  of 
comment  running  from  end  to  end  of  the  ranks, 
caused  by  the  odor  from  the  presents  of  the  Czar 
not  unlike  the  presence  of  a  skunk.  Examination 
disclosed  that  the  bloody  (literally)  coats  were 
dotted  in  many  places  with  the  actual  flesh  of  the 
deceased  animals  still  sticking  to  them.     In  spite 


LANDING  IN  FRANCE j$ 

of  stern  orders  from  the  O.  C's.  of  the  various 
companies  to  maintain  silence  during  inspection, 
it  was  plainly  discernible  that  the  smell  had  pene- 
trated even  the  seasoned  nostrils  of  the  officers 
themselves,  from  the  Colonel  down.  I  am  cer- 
tain that  the  Germans  would  have  been  badly 
frightened  that  we  had  a  poison  gas  of  our  own 
if  we  had  had  a  chance  to  tackle  them  with  our 
coats  on  when  the  stink  was  fresh  and  full  in  its 
pristine  glory,  as  it  was  when  we  first  got  them. 

As  fate  would  have  it,  and  as  usual,  I  got  a 
garment  that  would  have  covered  the  hairy  legs 
of  Goliath  of  Gath ;  I  almost  tramped  on  the  hairy 
fringe  every  time  I  stepped,  and  I  can't  think  of 
anything  that  would  more  aptly  describe  my 
appearance  than  my  chum  Morgan's  exclamation : 
"  For  God's  sake,  fellows,  take  a  look  at  this  little 
runt  of  a  centipede.  Shorty,  for  the  love  of 
Mike  have  you  any  idea  what  you  look  like4?" 

"Go  to  hell,"  I  snorted,  whereat  the  entire 
platoon  held  their  sides,  and  I  was  mad  enough 
to  turn  a  machine  gun  on  them. 

Hanging  from  the  belt  is  the  entrenching  tool 


74  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

and  handle ;  it  is  shaped  like  a  tiny  grub  hoe.  One 
would  be  apt  to  be  amused  at  the  idea  of  digging 
a  hole  with  a  toy  like  that,  but  under  shell  fire 
you  could  dig  a  hole  quicker  with  that  little  tool 
than  with  a  pick  and  shovel. 

Next  is  the  haversack  worn  on  the  left  side  and 
the  water  bottle  on  the  right.  In  the  pouches 
attached  to  the  belt  and  braces  a  hundred  and 
twenty  rounds  of  ball  ammunition  are  carried. 
In  addition  to  all  this  a  man  takes  his  blanket  and 
oil  sheet  rolled  on  the  top  of  his  valise. 

One  can  understand  from  this  why  men  for  the 
army  need  so  much  training.  Men  of  the  finest 
physique  would  collapse  inside  of  a  mile  with 
marching  order  on  their  backs  if  not  properly 
trained. 

We  arrived  at  the  depot  where  we  were  told  to 
lie  down  if  we  wished  and  we  did  so  with  alacrity 
and  waited  for  the  train.  Day  broke,  and  once 
more  fatigue  work.  Guns  were  loaded  on  flat 
cars  and  transport  wagons,  horses  were  placed  in 
box  cars,  eight  to  a  car,  hay,  straw,  rations,  etc., 
were  loaded  in  double  quick  time,  and  finally  the 


LANDING  IN  FRANCE 75 

men  were  off,  so  many  to  a  car.  On  the  side  of 
the  cars  in  white  letters  was  painted  the  legend 
Chevaux  8,  Hommes  40,  which  to  those  who  do 
not  know  French  means  eight  horses  or  forty  men. 

Forty-three  were  told  off  to  our  car  and  here 
the  first  taste  of  active  service  really  began.  We 
were  three  days  on  board  that  train,  but  not  only 
could  we  not  lie  down,  but  there  was  not  enough 
room  to  even  sit  down,  and  when  we  rested  we 
took  it  by  relays.  However,  with  songs  and 
cheers  the  train  pulled  out,  and  in  spite  of  our 
cramped  quarters  we  managed  to  be  happy  and 
enjoy  our  first  glimpse  of  "La  Belle  France." 

Vociferous  were  the  exclamations  of  the  French 
at  every  place  we  stopped.  Women  would  draw 
their  forefingers  about  their  throats,  signifying  the 
cutting  of  that  part  of  the  human  frame,  with  the 
word,  "Allemand,"  signifying  German.  An  old 
man,  too  old  to  serve  in  the  army,  made  the  motion 
of  a  bayonet  thrust,  informing  us  —  at  least  we 
guessed  that  was  what  he  meant  —  to  so  treat  the 
hated  Allemands.  We  were  always  surrounded 
by  crowds  of  souvenir  hunters,  which  did  not  dis- 


76 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

turb  us  at  first  but  before  we  had  half  finished  our 
journey  they  became  an  unmitigated  nuisance, 
and  the  boys  were  not  long  in  letting  them  know 
their  safety  depended  on  the  distance  they  kept 
away. 

At  last  on  a  bleak,  raw  morning,  we  detrained 
at  a  spot  where  was  witnessed  a  desperate 
encounter  between  the  British  and  Germans  in 
the  early  part  of  the  war.  A  mile  or  so  from  the 
place  is  the  town  of  Hazebrouck.  It  was  here 
that  the  terrible  toll  of  this  conflict  was  brought 
home  to  us.  Line  after  line  of  wooden  crosses, 
with  the  names  and  regiments  of  the  men  who 
lay  beneath,  stretched  for  an  appalling  distance. 
Since  then  a  fearful  number  of  graves  has  been 
added,  including  thousands  of  our  boys  of  Canada, 
following  the  battle  of  Ypres. 

Later  on  I  noticed  the  poppies  that  abound  all 
through  sunny  France,  waving  their  pretty  heads 
between  the  crosses,  which  gave  inspiration  for 
that  beautiful  poem  by  Lieutenant  John  McCrae, 
originally  published,  I  believe,  in  the  London 
Punch.     It  is  well  worth  repeating: 


LANDING  IN  FRANCE 7£ 

In  Flanders  Fields 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  grow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place;  while  in  the  sky 
The  larks  still  bravely  singing  fly 
Unheard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead!    Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset's  glow, 
Loved,  and  were  loved;  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe ; 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch  —  be  yours  to  hold  it  high, 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us 
We  shall  not  sleep  'though  poppies  blow 
In  Flanders  fields. 

After  detraining  we  were  placed  in  billets,  ours 
consisting  of  an  old  barn.  The  near-by  farm  was 
being  run  by  the  women  of  the  place,  all  the  men 
folks  being  away  in  the  trenches.  These  people 
must  have  made  a  small  fortune,  as  the  boys 
bought  eggs,   butter,  coffee,  etc.,   in  abundance. 

Our  experiences  in  making  change  for  our  pur- 
chases uniquely  expressed  the  old  saying,  "  money 
talks,"  because  the  dealers  everywhere  seemed  to 


78 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  values  of  Eng- 
lish currency,  although  they  couldn't  speak  the 
language. 

Here  we  stayed  for  a  few  days  until  our  march 
to  the  trenches  began.  Nightly,  as  we  lay,  we 
could  hear  the  boom  of  an  occasional  big  gun, 
the  rattle  of  rapid  rifle  fire,  and  now  and  again 
the  peculiar  metallic  click  and  whir  of  machine 
guns. 

It  was  in  this  place  that  the  clock-tower  inci- 
dent occurred :  Someone  noticed  the  hands  of  the 
clock  on  the  east  end  of  the  tower  moving 
strangely;  two  men  were  sent  up  to  investigate. 
They  did  not  return  and  a  search  was  made  for 
them.  They  could  not  be  located,  but  suspicious 
sounds  were  heard  up  in  the  tower.  The  officers 
decided  it  was  a  case  for  the  guns.  One  shell 
brought  the  tower  tumbling  down  and  with  it 
came  the  bodies  of  two  German  spies  and  the 
men  who  had  been  sent  to  investigate.  The  spies 
had  been  using  the  hands  of  the  clock  for  signaling 
purposes. 


o 


CHAPTER  XII 

MY  BAPTISM  OF   FIRE 

N  the  morning  before  we  set  out  for  the 
trenches  we  were  inspected  by  Sir  John 
French  and  other  well-known  leaders  of  the 
British  Army. 

That  night  the  guns  roared,  Maxims  barked 
and  rifles  kept  up  an  incessant  fire  all  night.  We 
began  to  have  a  very  heartfelt  idea  of  what  we 
were  in  for  and  the  tightening  up  of  the  faces  of 
the  men  was  distinctly  perceptible,  accompanied 
with  ejaculations  from  some  of  the  English  Tom- 
mies in  our  battalion,  such  as  "Gawd  blime  me, 
but  it's  gettin'  close  now." 

Next  day  at  about  twelve  o'clock  we  fell  in, 
joined  the  remainder  of  the  battalion  in  Haze- 
brouck,  and  the  march  to  Armentieres  commenced. 
This  march  will  long  be  remembered  by  all  who 
survived.  Everyone  was  in  great  spirits,  and 
songs    and   jokes    were    the   order.      Along    the 

[79] 


8o HOLDING  THE  LINE 

cobbled  roads  we  swung  in  full  marching  order, 
and  the  first  part  of  the  journey  was  accomplished 
with  ease.  But  those  awful  cobbled  roads  began 
to  tell  their  tale.  They  are  paved  with  rough, 
uneven  cobbles,  and  when  a  little  rain  has  fallen 
a  man  goes  slipping  and  sliding  all  over  the  place. 
A  thin  layer  of  mud  makes  it  ten  times  worse;  so 
by  the  time  we  had  done  fifteen  miles,  men  began 
to  lag.  On  and  on  we  went,  until  at  last  the 
officers  were  obliged  to  halt  the  men. 

As  is  usual,  toward  evening  we  felt  better,  and 
lustily  informed  the  natives  that,  "The  Gang's 
All  Here;"  "Here  We  Are  Again;"  and  various 
choruses  of  a  like  nature  were  roared  by  us  as  we 
swung  like  one  man  into  Armentieres.  Here  we 
received  vociferous  welcome  from  those  fearless 
fighting  men,  the  boys  of  the  British  regular  army. 
Their  welcome  was  a  royal  as  well  as  a  noisy  one, 
because  they  shoved  refreshing  drinks  and  cig- 
arettes into  our  hands,  which  were  eagerly  taken. 

"What  in  blazes  do  you  call  this  stuff?"  I 
asked  of  a  burly  Tommy  who  had  thrust  a  bottle 
of  liquid  at  me. 


MY  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 81 

"Wy,  that,  don't  you  know*?  That's  beer, 
French  beer." 

"The  devil,  you  say!" 

"'Pon  my  soul,  it  is." 

"Is  the  French  fightin'  man  anything  like  his 
beer'?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  no,  Gawd  forbid,"  said  he,  "for  this  damn 
stuff  is  as  much  like  beer  as  kissin'  your  own 
sister." 

And  I  thoroughly  agreed  with  him,  because 
although  it  looked  like  beer  and  smelt  like  beer, 
it  was  no  more  like  beer  than  the  kiss  of  a  man's 
sister  would  be  when  compared  to  the  kiss  of  his 
sweetheart. 

Our  long  march  ended  and  we  were  billeted  in 
the  best  billets  I  ever  remember  while  abroad.  It 
was  the  luck  of  our  platoon  to  be  billeted  at  an 
estaminet,  or  inn.  The  owner  of  this  was  some- 
what of  a  naturalist,  the  walls  of  his  house  being 
hung  with  all  kinds  of  valuable  skins,  cases  of 
butterflies,  etc.  The  people  here  were  the  acme 
of  kindness.  You  may  guess  how  we  slept  that 
night. 


82  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

During  our  stay  in  this  billet  I  was  always  very 
conscious  of  a  curious  frightened  feeling,  and  as 
I  looked  at  the  carefree  faces  of  my  comrades,  I 
often  wondered  if  they  felt  as  I  did.  Sometimes 
a  dull,  menacing  boom,  making  the  air  vibrate, 
would  cause  a  silence  to  fall  and  a  far-away  look 
in  the  eyes  told  me  more  emphatically  than  any 
words  could  that  the  rest  of  the  boys  were 
"thinking  it  over,"  probably  just  as  hard  as  I 
was  doing. 

Next  morning  we  had  a  grand  breakfast,  due 
to  the  kindness  of  Major,  then  Captain  Hopkins. 
Before  actually  going  into  the  trenches  we  were 
taken  some  thousand  yards  to  the  back  of  the  first 
line  and  started  to  work  at  filling  sandbags  and 
generally  improving  the  condition  of  the  rear  of 
our  lines.  Mile  after  mile  at  the  back  of  the 
firing  line,  trenches  are  being  improved  in  case  of 
retirement.  The  Germans  are  doing  the  same, 
but  they  make  theirs  of  concrete,  so  when 
grumbling  at  the  slow  progress  of  the  Allies,  just 
think  for  a  moment  of  the  tremendous  task  in 
front  of  them. 


MY  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  83 

An  occasional  bullet  would  whistle  over  our 
heads  as  we  worked,  while  some  would  imbed 
themselves  in  the  mud  around  us.  No  one  was 
hit  and  just  at  dusk  we  were  marched  back  to  our 
billets  for  one  more  night's  rest  before  taking  our 
places  in  the  first  line. 

Engaged  in  conversation  that  night  with  the 
good  Monsieur  Prevot,  the  worthy  host  of  the 
estaminet,  was  a  man  who  looked  the  typical 
Tommy  of  the  British  Army.  Of  medium  height, 
thickset,  dark  hair  and  dark  moustache,  he  was 
about  the  last  person  one  would  suspect  of  being 
anything  but  the  soldier  he  proclaimed  himself 
to  be.  Soon  he  was  hobnobbing  with  the  boys, 
playing  cards  and  telling  them  stories  of  the 
earlier  days  of  the  war. 

He  had  been  spending  some  little  time  there, 
but  unlike  all  British  soldiers  he  showed  a 
strange  neglect  of  his  rifle,  scarcely  ever  looking 
at  it  and  much  less  cleaning  it.  This  aroused  the 
suspicion  of  Sergeant-major  Demaille  and  the  lat- 
ter, coming  into  the  estaminet  one  day  and  finding 
him  there,   began   to  question  him.     The  man's 


84  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

replies  only  heightened  the  S-M's  suspicions  and 
he  was  placed  under  arrest.  That  was  the  last  we 
ever  saw  of  him,  but  his  was  a  short  shrift.  He 
paid  the  price  for  his  daring. 

To  many  people  the  work  of  a  spy  carries  with 
it  an  odium  that  is  unspeakably  disgusting;  his 
activities  are  associated  with  everything  that  is 
dirty,  sneaking  and  contemptible.  This,  in  my 
opinion,  is  true  of  all  shades  of  spies  except  the 
man  who  operates  in  the  battle  lines.  In  this  case 
he  knows  there  is  absolutely  no  shadow  of  a  chance 
for  his  life  if  caught,  and  it  requires  a  nerve  that 
is  brave  indeed  to  engage  in  that  type  of  the 
work.  Spying,  a  soldier  detests,  but,  while  detest- 
ing, he  is  full  of  admiration  for  the  courage  of 
the  spy. 

The  following  day  we  fell  in  about  four-thirty 
in  the  afternoon  and  started  for,  as  we  thought, 
the  trenches.  To  stiffen  our  backs,  as  it  were,  we 
were  ordered  to  fall  in  immediately  beside  the 
graveyard  at  Armentieres,  where  scores  of  little 
wooden  crosses  marked  the  resting  places  of  the 
numberless  children  who  were  killed  in  the  bom- 


MY  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 85 

bardment.  We  were  allowed  to  talk  and  smoke 
until  we  had  gone  some  distance,  then  strict  silence 
was  kept.  By  and  by  we  were  halted  and  split  up 
into  sections,  to  minimize  the  effect  of  shell  fire. 
The  road  was  pitted  with  shell  holes,  these  being 
full  of  water.  The  night  being  very  dark,  except 
when  a  flare  would  light  up  the  country  with  its 
weird  color  for  a  moment,  the  men  now  and  then 
would  trip  and  fall  with  a  muttered  curse. 

It  was  all  quiet  in  front,  but  occasionally  a  burst 
of  fire  would  wake  the  echoes  and  bullets  would 
whiz  over  our  heads.  A  few  of  them  fell  around 
us,  but  no  one  was  hurt.  It  is  a  peculiar  sensa- 
tion to  find  yourself  under  fire  for  the  first  time. 
A  man  feels  utterly  helpless  and  at  first  he  will 
duck  his  head  at  every  whiz  he  hears.  Of  course 
ducking  is  useless,  because  if  you  hear  the  whiz 
of  the  pill,  or  the  report  of  the  rifle,  you  are  still 
untouched,  but  every  man  who  has  ever  experi- 
enced this  will  tell  you  that  he  could  not  help 
ducking  even  knowing  how  useless  it  was.  I  went 
so  far  as  to  put  up  my  shoulders  to  cover  my  jaws, 
as  if  in  a  boxing  stunt. 


86 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

One  of  the  British  Tommies  gave  me  a  bit  of 
brief  but  sound  philosophy  on  ducking:  "If  you 
'ear  them,  they  won't  'urt  you;  if  you  don't  'ear 
them,  you're  dead."  A  little  later  on  a  bit  of 
Irish  humor  was  tragically  mingled  with  duck- 
ing. A  shell  was  coming,  as  an  Irish  soldier 
thought,  straight  for  him,  and  he  ducked,  and  the 
shell  swept  away  the  head  of  the  man  behind  him. 
Said  Paddy,  "Shure  it  always  pays  to  be  polite." 
By  and  by  we  were  halted  and  lead  through  a 
kind  of  tunnel  into  a  barn.  Here  were  a  bunch 
of  British,  most  of  them  having  taken  part  in  the 
Mons  retirement.  We  found  we  were  to  act  as 
a  reserve  with  these  men,  that  is,  in  case  of  attack 
we  would  make  our  way  to  the  front  line  as 
quickly  as  possible.  A  trench  led  from  both  sides 
of  this  barn,  but  it  was  so  skilfully  concealed  that 
no  one  would  have  dreamt  of  its  being  there.  In 
this  barn  the  Tommies  had  made  themselves  very 
comfortable,  having  straw  to  lie  on,  and  fires  with 
which  to  boil  tea.  We  soon  were  great  friends 
with  the  regulars,  who  gave  us  many  valuable  tips 
for  active  service. 


MY  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  87 


We  stayed  here  for  twenty-four  hours,  the  only 
excitement  being  a  German  shell  dropped  in  the 
separator  of  an  antiquated  threshing  machine, 
some  two  hundred  yards  to  our  rear,  and  the  way 
those  thresher  men  bolted  makes  me  think  that 
they  are  probably  running  yet. 

The  natives  at  that  time  farmed  away,  just 
about  five  hundred  yards  from  the  firing  line,  as 
if  nothing  was  out  of  the  ordinary.  I  saw  them 
finishing  land  in  one  part  of  a  small  field,  while 
shrapnel  was  spraying  the  other  part,  and  at  that 
time  a  family  was  living  in  every  house  around 
there.  Since  then,  however,  both  they  and  the 
town  of  Armentieres  are  just  dust  heaps,  being 
shelled  to  a  finish  at  about  the  same  time  as  the 
great  bombardment  of  Ypres. 

At  nightfall  we  trudged  silently  from  the  barn 
and  without  any  casualties  succeeded  in  reaching 
our  hospitable  estaminet.  The  good  lady  of  the 
house,  after  counting  us  over,  prepared  hot  coffee 
for  us. 

In  this  town  is  the  French  and  Belgian  burial 
ground  and  at  that  time  it  was  full  of  statuary; 


88 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

even  the  humblest  grave  had  its  own  little  shrine 
above  it.  The  monuments  were  very  fine,  par- 
ticularly a  huge  marble  one  which  had  been 
erected  by  the  sons  of  Armentieres  for  those  who 
had  died  for  La  Patrie,  at  Quatre  Bras,  Algiers, 
the  Crimea  and  the  war  of  1870.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful monument,  some  thirty  feet  high,  and  could 
not  possibly  be  of  any  advantage  to  either  side, 
yet  the  Germans,  a  few  weeks  afterwards,  shelled 
this  graveyard,  utterly  destroying  all  the  beauti- 
ful monuments  and  exhuming  piecemeal  dozens 
of  bodies. 

A  crucifix,  with  the  figure  of  the  Savior,  was 
in  the  most  conspicuous  place  in  that  burial 
ground;  it  was  easily  twenty  feet  high;  yet  it 
remained  untouched  throughout  the  whole  bom- 
bardment. In  not  one  single  instance  (and  I  think 
all  returned  soldiers  will  say  the  same)  have  I  seen 
the  figure  of  the  Savior  anything  but  intact,  no 
matter  how  destructive  the  shelling  has  been.  The 
cross  itself  has  been  smashed  to  dust,  but  the 
figure  has  never  been  hit.  This  is  very  remark- 
able, but  a  fact. 


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MY  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 89 

The  next  afternoon  at  four-thirty  came  the 
order,  "Fall  in,"  and  we  knew  we  were  booked 
now  for  the  real  thing.  Rifles  were  examined, 
ammunition  inspected,  and  as  night  was  falling 
we  swung  through  the  town  and  across  the  bridge, 
temporarily  erected  by  the  engineers,  the  Ger- 
mans having  destroyed  the  original  one  in  their 
retreat.  The  townspeople  turned  out  en  masse 
apparently  none  the  worse  for  a  few  shells  that 
had  been  flying  among  them  a  few  hours  before. 
Bon  chance  was  shouted  from  all  sides,  to  which 
we  replied  in  English. 

Being  very  much  on  the  short  side  and  all  the 
more  conspicuous  by  the  majority  of  the  boys 
being  very  much  on  the  tall  side,  I  came  in  for 
much  chaff  from  the  people  who  christened  me 
le  picannin.  It  became  a  great  joke  among  my 
chums  and  I  had  to  submit  to  a  lot  of  chaff.  At 
last  we  came  to  the  hospital  and  the  order  was 
passed  down  the  line  for  silence.  Again  splitting 
into  small  sections  we  trudged  silently  along,  now 
and  again  stumbling  into  the  shell  craters. 

Once  we  were  placed  at  the  side  of  the  road  to 


oo HOLDING  THE  LINE 

let  the  casualties  go  by.  Nothing  is  so  weird  as 
to  meet  those  stretcher  bearers  on  a  quiet  night  at 
the  back  of  the  line.  Not  a  word  is  spoken,  the 
bearers  stepping  as  one  man.  Up  in  the  air  goes 
a  flare  and  the  faces  of  everyone  take  on  a  ghastly 
green  tint,  accentuating  the  expression  of  suffer- 
ing. It  is  a  wonderful  experience,  and  only  a 
soldier  can  realize  the  heroic  stoicism  of  a 
wounded  comrade.  Racked  with  pain  they  may 
be,  but  with  the  inevitable  smoke  between  their 
lips,  they  will  grin  at  you  as  they  pass. 

If  you  want  to  imagine  what  a  bullet  wound 
feels  like  try  and  think  that  you  have  got  it  and 
then  imagine  what  it  is  to  be  carried  over  the 
bumpy  road,  dumped  down  time  after  time,  so 
that  your  bearers  may  drop  on  the  ground  and 
live  to  carry  you  out.  The  Huns  fire  on  every- 
thing that  moves,  and  every  time  a  flare  rises, 
down  your  bearers  must  drop  or  run  the  certainty 
of  being  sniped.  Sometimes  in  a  big  action  men 
will  lie  for  days,  some  with  desperate  wounds, 
sniped  at  if  they  show  the  slightest  movement,  and 
then  comes  the  journey  from  the  dressing  station 


MY  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 91 

along  a  road  raked  with  shell  fire.  Just  try  and 
imagine  it,  and  if  you  see  a  soldier  back  from  hell 
kicking  over  the  traces,  and  going  a  little  bit  wild, 
just  think  of  what  he  has  been  in  and  endured. 

In  my  case  the  sight  of  these  casualties  caused 
me  to  shiver,  for  there  I  was  in  perfect  health  and 
strength,  yet  how  long  before  I  would  be  like  one 
of  these  boys ! 

However,  we  were  not  given  much  time  for 
thinking.  "Keep  absolutely  quiet  and  no  talk- 
ing," was  the  whispered  command  that  was 
passed  among  us.  The  blackness  of  the  night 
made  seeing  anything  clearly  absolutely  impos- 
sible. No  smoking  was  permitted  and  if  a  machine 
gun  opened  on  the  road  we  were  to  throw  our- 
selves flat.  This  was  most  encouraging  as  the 
road  had  a  beautiful  layer  of  nice  clinging  mud, 
while  pools  of  water,  from  two  to  ten  feet  deep, 
were  scattered  everywhere.  We  were  all  green 
troops  and  when  the  "plut-plut-ping"  began 
over  our  heads,  the  ducking  would  have  done 
credit  to  Jim  Corbett. 

By  and  by  we  steadied  up,  especially  as  we 


2£ HOLDING  THE  LINE 

heard  some  British  Tommies,  who  were  returning 
from  their  spell  in  front,  enjoying  a  quiet  laugh 
at  our  expense.  However,  as  one  of  them  put  it, 
"The'll  get  used  tew  it  lad,  we  were  as  bad  at 
start.  Goot  neet."  "  Silence  there !  "  from  our 
Old  Man.  I  had  a  kind  of  "home  and  mother" 
feeling  in  my  stomach  and  I  expected  every  min- 
ute to  hear  the  machine  guns  begin  to  bark.  We 
had  been  told  that  a  strip  of  railway  about  two 
hundred  yards  from  the  trenches  was  a  veritable 
death  trap,  the  Allemands  peppering  it  about 
every  hour.  It  was  on  the  road  to  our  trenches, 
so  we  were  obliged  to  go  over  it.  When  we  came 
to  the  spot  I  fancied  that  that  strip  of  land  was 
about  a  mile  across  instead  of  about  ten  yards. 

Judge  of  our  astonishment,  when  the  door  of 
a  house  opened  and  a  woman  came  out  and  stood 
calmly  watching  us  pass,  mind  you,  only  two 
hundred  yards  from  our  own  front  lines  and  three 
hundred  yards  from  the  Germans.  And  there  I 
was  trying  to  make  myself  as  small  as  a  midget, 
and  she  standing  calmly  erect  as  if  butterflies 
instead  of  bullets  were  flying  around.    Thought  L 


MY  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 93 

"If  that  woman  can  stand  like  that,  surely  I  can 
at  least  walk  erect."  I  did  so,  but  it  was  a  terrible 
effort. 

A  guide  from  the  Tommies  took  us  in  hand  and 
the  pace  he  set  was  a  caution.  He  was  used  to 
it,  but  we  were  on  strange  ground,  and  it  was  as 
dark  as  pitch.  We  carried  our  rifles  at  the  trail 
as  a  guide  to  the  man  behind.  Now  and  then 
our  worthy  guide  would  stop  to  get  over  or 
through  some  obstacle,  causing  a  momentary  halt. 
Bang !  goes  the  rifle  of  the  man  in  front  of  me,  the 
butt  catching  me  plumb  in  the  stomach.  Swear- 
ing came  from  all  around  as  some  of  the  boys 
would  run  their  noses  onto  a  pair  of  boots  or  some- 
thing equally  hard  in  the  valises  of  the  men  in 
front,  or  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle  prodded  someone  in 
the  back. 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  Fritz  grew  sus- 
picious and  up  went  a  flare,  but  we  were  not 
spotted  except  by  a  few  snipers  who  sent  over  a 
few  souvenirs,  which  luckily  none  of  us  accepted. 
The  pain  in  my  tummie  obliged  me  to  stay  behind 
for  a  time,  and  when  I  felt  able  to  go  on,  the  boys 


94 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

were  disappearing  in  front.  The  man  who  dug 
his  rifle  butt  into  my  stomach  was  named 
"Slaughter"  and  he  gave  me  solid  proof  that  he 
earned  his  name  that  night,  for  my  tummie  was 
sore  for  weeks. 

I  was  afraid  I  was  going  to  get  lost,  so  I 
mustered  up  all  my  strength  to  try  and  run  after 
the  boys,  and  after  covering  a  few  yards,  over  I 
went  into  a  Jack  Johnson  hole  (crater  made  by 
16  inch  shell,  often  fifteen  to  thirty  feet  wide  and 
as  deep).  There  wasn't  much  water  in  the  hole, 
but  lots  of  mud;  my  rifle  was  absolutely  choked 
with  it  and  I  was  in  an  awful  mess.  I  managed 
to  flounder  out,  and  on  going  a  short  distance  I 
was  challenged  and  found  I  had  come  right  into 
the  trench  we  were  to  occupy. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  THE  FRONT  LINE 

A  GRUFF  voice  with  a  broad  Lancashire 
accent  asked  me  who  I  was.  I  replied, 
"Fifth  Canadians."  "Aw  reet,"  said  he,  "the'll 
be  on  the  next  trick  wi'  me,"  meaning  I  was  to  be 
sentry  with  him.  A  bunch  of  these  British  Tom- 
mies was  out  at  the  back  filling  sandbags,  and 
their  utter  contempt  for  the  occasional  shots  fired 
at  them  soon  told  me  they  were  regulars.  My 
companion  and  I  soon  became  great  chums,  he 
explaining  to  me  the  various  things  about  trench 
life. 

As  we  talked,  a  succession  of  flares  suddenly 
leapt  skyward,  the  whole  district  being  lit  up  by 
the  green  flare.  The  boys  filling  sandbags  raced 
for  the  trench,  grabbed  their  rifles  and  stood  ready 
for  anything  that  might  come  along.  The  Ger- 
mans were  sending  a  perfect  fusillade  over.     It 

[95  1 


96 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

was  no  attack,  however.  They  had  simply  sighted 
our  listening  patrols  and  had  commenced  firing 
on  them. 

My  turn  for  sentry  came,  and  with  as  little 
of  myself  showing  as  possible,  I  peered  over  the 
parapet.  Of  course,  looking  over  the  top  is  cer- 
tain death  during  the  day,  but  darkness  makes  it 
possible.  It  was  a  curious  feeling  I  had.  I  could 
see  nothing  but  inky  blackness  except  when  a  flare 
went  up.  I  would  search  the  ground  in  front  of 
me  while  the  light  lasted,  then  duck  as  the  inevi- 
table snipers  took  a  pot  shot. 

For  an  hour  I  stood  sentry,  then  was  relieved. 
Five  of  my  companions  and  myself  huddled  into 
a  partially  completed  dugout  in  a  vain  effort  to 
keep  warm.  While  getting  up  to  the  trenches  the 
weight  of  the  equipment  kept  us  warm,  also  the 
heavy  traveling,  but  standing  still  in  that  trench 
was  a  different  matter.  The  mud  rose  to  my 
thighs  in  places.  Inside  the  dugout  was  a  small 
charcoal  fire,  but  very  little  heat  came  from  that. 
The  night  was  bitterly  raw  and  cold,  and  wet  and 
muddy  as  we  were,  we  could  not  keep  from  shiv- 


8Mw*<— 

... 

n    JB^^rfr            ,~i 

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* 

^flpiP! 

From   photo   by    the   author. 


OUR  XEST    (DUGOUT)   IS  ON  THE  RIGHT. 


From   photo   by    the   author. 

MEALS  ARE  ANY  TIME  WHEN  ONE  IS  HUNGRY 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE  97 

ering,  while  I  lost  all  feeling  in  my  feet.  Then  we 
found  we  could  get  a  certain  amount  of  heat  in 
the  dugout,  as  the  floor  was  dry,  by  hugging  each 
other  tightly.  While  it  would  be  hard  to  conceive 
of  a  bunch  of  boys  feeling  more  miserable  than 
we  did,  yet  I  have  to  smile  to  myself  when  I  think 
of  those  moments.  With  our  arms  clasping  each 
other  tightly,  leaning  over  a  little  charcoal  fire, 
our  teeth  chattering  like  monkeys,  almost  keeping 
time  to  the  rattle  of  the  machine  guns,  we  man- 
aged to  keep  our  heads.  It  is  wonderful  what 
men  will  endure  when  sweet  life  is  the  price. 

It  was  while  trying  to  keep  warm  that  first 
night  over  the  little  charcoal  fire  that  I  first  learned 
how  to  handle  my  bayonet,  if  I  was  ever  to  be 
lucky  enough  to  ram  it  so  far  into  a  German  belly 
that  I  couldn't  pull  it  out  handily.  The  lesson 
came  from  a  corporal  of  the  East  Lanks  (Lan- 
cashires)  who  was  explaining  the  advantages  of 
the  Lee-Enfield  rifle  and  bayonet  over  the  Ross, 
and  his  description  was  so  realistically  vivid  that 
my  teeth  forgot  to  chatter  with  the  chill  I  had. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "if  you  push  it  in  too  far, 


98 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

you  canna  get  it  oot  again,  because  this  groove 
on  the  side  o'  it  makes  the  'ole  air-tight;  as  soon 
as  it  is  jabbed  into  a  man  the  suction  pulls  the 
flesh  all  over  it  and  you  canna  chuck  it  oot." 

"Well,  what  would  you  do  if  you  couldn't  get 
it  out  and  another  mug  was  making  for  you?"  I 
asked. 

"Why  if  a  twist  won't  do  it,  stick  your  foot  on 
the  beggar  and  wrench  it  out;  if  that  won't  do  it, 
just  pull  the  trigger  a  couple  of  times  and  there 
you  are  —  she  will  blow  out." 

"Did  you  ever  have  any  trouble  yourselves?" 

"Oh,  aye.  I  remember  at  Landrecies,  in  the 
'ouse  to  'ouse  fightin',  my  chum,  Topper,  and  me 
were  backed  into  an  alley,  with  a  wall  at  our  back 
and  a  bunch  of  hulking  Prussians  pressing  us  hard. 
Some  more  of  the  boys  fell  on  them  from  the 
side,  but  Topper  and  me  had  all  we  could  do  with 
the  two  or  three  that  took  a  fancy  to  us.  The 
Pruss  that  took  a  fancy  to  me  raised  the  butt  of 
his  gun  to  smash  me  nut  and  I  took  a  chance  an' 
lunged.  I  lunged  too  'ard  and  I  'ad  the  trouble 
I've  just  been  tellin'  ye,  and  in  my  funk  I  did 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE  99 

just  what  I  toUiMu  ||fjf^r-she  stuck;   I 

wrenched  ^jk^^jf  =pTjj5e  sfHq|>4W    l   adn  t 
fired  and  |rtl*M!wHM  wouldn't 

a'  been  >er&timito,fymm£kW 

"And  why  couldn't  I  do  the  same  with  this 
one4?"  I  asked,  referring  to  my  Ross  bayonet. 

"It's  too  broad  at  the  point.  The  man  that 
gave  ye  that  dam'd  thing  might  just  as  well  'ave 
passed  sentence  o'  death  on  yer  in  a  'and  to  'and 

go." 

As  a  loyal  Canadian  I  was  at  first  inclined  to 
resent  the  imputation  that  our  rifle  was  in  any 
way  inferior  to  anything  on  earth,  but  the  cor- 
poral's prophecy  proved  only  too  true  within  a 
short  month. 

With  another  spell  at  sentry  the  night  wore  on 
and  at  last  day  began  to  break.  The  morning  was 
foggy  and  raw,  but  our  hearts  were  cheered  by  the 
coming  up  of  the  rum.  Yes,  you  may  be  horrified, 
good  people  who  read  this,  but  that  rum  is  a  God- 
send, and  so  you  too  would  think  if  you  had  been 
standing  with  feet  that  you  did  not  feel  you  pos- 
sessed, shivering,  plastered  with  mud  and  wet  to 


ioo  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  skin,  standing  with  rifle  ready  an  hour  before 
dawn,  expecting  that  any  minute  you  might  have 
to  line  the  trenches  and  fight  for  your  life.  Under 
those  conditions  you  may  understand  why  a  man 
needs  something  to  warm  the  blood  in  his  veins. 

One  of  the  Tommies,  my  sentry  chum,  stole  out 
under  cover  of  the  fog  and  returned  with  a  jar  of 
water.  We  built  a  fire  (we  were  allowed  fires  as 
long  as  the  fog  lasted)  and  dined  sumptuously  on 
bully  beef  and  strong  tea.  One  of  the  regulars, 
a  man  about  thirty  years  old,  was  alternately 
cursing  the  Germans  and  trying  to  warm  his  feet. 
Apparently  he  did  not  care  whether  he  was  hit  or 
not,  as  he  stood  at  the  back  of  the  trench,  his  entire 
body  exposed,  his  chief  concern  in  life  apparently 
being  to  get  warm. 

In  his  efforts  to  get  his  blood  circulating  he  said 
he  would  rather  be  home  again  than  standing  all 
night  in  that  bloody  trough  of  water  and  mud. 
Something  in  his  tone  about  home  suggested  a 
thought  to  one  fellow  who  queried:  "You  would 
rather  be  home  again*?  Is  it  nearly  as  bad  as 
this?" 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE 101 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  said,  "I  was 
'oping  I'd  'ave  a  bit  of  a  change,  don't  you  know, 
and  a  sort  o'  relief  from  Lizer's  everlastin'  tongue, 
but,  strike  me  pink,  if  I  wouldn't  rather  'ave  'er 
dear  old  tongue  than  this  —  yes,  even  on  a  Satur- 
day night,  when  I'd  come  'ome  drunk  and  me 
wages  spent." 

A  rather  tough-looking  nut  who  was  listening 
to  the  dialogue  chimed  in  contemptuously:  "  Huh, 
she  jaws  yer,  does  she*?  Wy  that's  nuffink. 
When  I  was  a-leavin'  of  Sary  Jane  I  was  a-bid- 
din'  'er  good-bye,  an'  just  to  make  a  showin'  I 
tries  to  kiss  'er,  but,  pepper  me  eye-balls,  she  lands 
me  a  swipe  on  the  jawr  an'  sez,  'Kiss  yer  mother; 
if  yer  licks  the  Germans  as  bad  as  you've  licked 
me,  you  won't  be  gone  long.'  " 

After  the  dissertations  on  married  life  by  the 
happy  benedicts,  our  suicidal  friend  of  the  East 
Lanks,  who,  reckless  as  ever,  was  still  standing  on 
the  parados,  which  is  the  step  in  the  rear  side  of  the 
trench  and,  therefore,  had  three-quarters  of  his 
body  exposed,  suddenly  yelled,  "There's  your 
Allemands;"  our  boys  jumped  to  his  side  to  see 


102  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

our  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Crack ! 
and  down  fell  the  Tommy,  and,  a  fraction  of  a 
second  later,  Slaughter,  holding  his  hand  to  his 
jaw,  slid  forward  slowly  and  convulsively  into  the 
trench.  It  was  my  first  experience  with  the 
reality  of  war  and  my  feeling  was  one  of  horror, 
then  curiosity  at  what  a  stricken  man  looked  like, 
then  blind  fury  at  everything  German. 

The  King's  Own  man  was  lying  on  his  back 
with  a  hole  through  his  cheek,  the  cheek-bone 
completely  smashed.  I  hastened  over  to  him, 
placed  my  overcoat  under  his  head  and  started  to 
bandage  his  face.  He  was  badly  hurt,  but  worth 
a  dozen  dead  men,  and  was  the  recipient  of  hearty 
congratulations  on  his  luck  in  getting  such  a 
Blighty  (sufficiently  wounded  to  take  him  home)  ; 
it  being  evident  that  his  wish  to  be  home  with  his 
wife  was  soon  to  be  realized. 

For  quite  a  long  time  after  I  had  a  constant 
ireminder  of  him  and  his  wound  in  the  blood- 
stained condition  of  my  overcoat,  which  was 
soaked  through  at  the  time. 

My  friend,  Slaughter,  was  hit  in  the  side  of 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE  103 

the  neck,  the  bullet  passing  down  his  back  and 
out  of  the  loin.  He  had  a  narrow  escape  and  it 
finished  his  active  service  there  and  then.  I  saw 
him  later  in  England  on  military  police  duty  and 
looking  fine,  but  he  will  never  again  carry  a  pack. 

To  illustrate  the  peculiar  course  a  bullet  will 
sometimes  take,  this  will  serve  as  an  example. 
The  King's  Own  man  had  his  left  arm  extended 
pointing  to  the  German  lines  and  the  bullet  first 
passed  through  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  then 
through  to  his  cheek,  came  out  at  his  ear,  passed 
over  in  an  oblique  direction,  hitting  Slaughter  in 
the  neck,  passing  out  at  his  loin,  then  through  two 
sandbags  and  embedded  itself  in  a  third.  We  dug 
it  out  and  one  of  the  boys  kept  it  as  a  souvenir. 

A  volley  of  sulphurous  language  warned  me 
that  my  guardian  angel,  Morgan,  was  approach- 
ing. He  had  been  farther  up  the  trench  hobnob- 
bing with  the  fellows,  and  on  hearing  of 
Slaughter's  mishap  came  to  see  how  he  was  far- 
ing. In  reality  he  had  come  over  to  see  if  I  was 
safe  and  sound,  but,  as  usual,  concealed  his  real 
feelings  in  a  mask  of  profanity. 


IQ4 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"Well,  runt,  you're  pretty  white  about  the 
gills,  ain't  ye1?  You  should  have  stayed  home 
with  your  mother  instead  of  coming  out  on  a 
man's  job.  Poor  little  fellow!  Shall  I  get  you 
a  glass  of  water  ?" 

"O,  go  to  hell,  you  black-whiskered  devil. 
Your  face  is  too  damned  homely  to  be  spoiled,  or 
I'd  smash  it  with  this  rifle." 

I  wasn't  feeling  any  too  chipper  as  it  was,  but 
I  knew  full  well  that  it  was  his  own  peculiar 
method  of  displaying  his  affection  forme,  and  thus 
was  it  answered. 

The  day  passed  uneventfully,  except  for  a 
lively  duel  between  a  bunch  of  regulars  and 
Canucks  and  some  frisky  snipers  in  a  house  about 
three  hundred  yards  off.  None  of  our  boys  were 
hit  and  they  silenced  Fritz  for  awhile.  Every 
time  we  moved  the  snipers  would  let  go,  but  we 
had  become  wary  and  no  further  casualties  hap- 
pened. The  day  turned  out  fairly  warm,  for 
which  we  were  very  thankful.  Toward  half-past 
four  in  the  afternoon  one  of  the  Tommies  near 
me  remarked,   "It's  time  he  started  the  Wood- 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE  105 

pecker."  "  Woodpecker (!  What  do  you  mean'?" 
"  Oh,"  said  he,  in  a  matter  of  fact  tone,  "  they  have 
a  machine  gun  laid  on  the  way  out  and  he  takes 
a  few  sighters  to  get  her  right  for  us  when  we  go 
out."     "Lord!"  thinks  I,  "more  of  it." 

True  enough,  about  four  thirty-five  Fritz 
started  the  "Woodpecker"  and  we  could  see  the 
bullets  striking  the  corner  of  an  old  house,  just 
where  we  were  to  pass  that  night.  You  can 
imagine  how  I  felt  when  our  relief  came  and  we 
started  our  journey  out.  We  stooped  as  low  as 
possible,  expecting  every  minute  to  be  opened  on, 
but  for  some  reason  he  did  not  let  her  speak  to  us 
that  night.  One  of  the  fellows,  however,  had 
three  fingers  sniped  off  by  a  stray  bullet  before 
we  were  out  of  the  danger  zone.  It  was  almost 
worth  the  price  to  hear  the  exuberance  of  his 
swearing;  but  he  was  lucky;  it  was  a  comfortable 
Blighty  for  him,  and  some  of  us  were  positively 
green  with  envy. 

An  amusing  thing  happened  on  our  way  out. 
We  were  green  at  that  time,  of  course,  and  we 
went  down  the  road  and  across  the  country  as  if 


io6 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

we  were  treading  on  eggs,  our  heads  between  our 
shoulders  and  our  backs  humped.  Morgan  walk- 
ing directly  behind  me,  remarked,  "What  the 
devil  are  you  ducking  for4?  You  don't  have  to 
duck,  you  poor  little  mite;  they  can't  hit  you, 
you're  too  small."  My  retort  was  big  enough  to 
suit  even  him. 

Presently  we  met  a  big  bunch  of  the  Lancashire 
Fusileers  going  in ;  they  were  striding  along,  heads 
up,  talking  freely  to  one  another  as  if  out  for  an 
ordinary  day's  work.  Immediately  we  saw  their 
attitude  we  determined  we  were  not  going  to  be 
disgraced.  Up  went  our  heads  and  I  can  honestly 
say  every  man  walked  along  like  a  seasoned 
veteran.  But  in  order  that  this  record  may  be  true 
in  every  detail  I  desire  to  say  that  it  was  the 
hardest  effort  I  ever  put  forth  in  my  life. 

That  finished  our  baptism  in  the  trench  brother- 
hood. Twenty-four  hours  for  a  start  and  not 
many  casualties;  in  the  whole  battalion  we  had 
two  killed  and  fourteen  wounded. 

We  were  taken  back  to  billets  in  Armentieres 
and   next   day  we   rested   and  sported   with   the 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE 107 

people,  fell  in  at  dusk  and  after  two  days  march- 
ing, trench  digging,  etc.,  were  marched  to  take  our 
own  line  of  trenches  at  a  place  called  Fleur  Baix. 

In  the  afternoon  before  we  started,  Morgan  and 
I  agreeing  for  once  in  our  career,  set  out  to  have 
a  "  time."  A  few  hundred  yards  from  our  lodg- 
ing was  an  est  amine  t  kept  by  two  Belgian  girls; 
these  girls  were  already  a  by- word  in  the  army  for 
their  tremendous  physique.  We  entered  and  a 
lively  scene  indeed  it  was.  On  the  floor  were  Tom- 
mies and  Johnnie  Canucks  dancing  to  a  rag-time 
tune  played  by  an  American  musical  box.  One 
of  the  famous  sisters,  as  well  as  what  few  girls 
were  available,  were  dancing  with  the  soldiers 
and  some  of  the  boys  were  lending  an  accompani- 
ment by  keeping  time,  hammering  the  floor  with 
the  wooden  shoes  worn  by  the  peasantry. 

"Hello,  runt,"  from  one;  "Come  in,  Shorty," 
from  another,  while  my  immediate  pals  set  up  a 
howl  of  welcome.  But  the  acme  of  my  welcome 
was  reached  when  the  other  of  the  giant  sisters, 
leaning  over  the  counter  of  the  estaminet  and 
greeting  me,    "Hello,   chick,"    almost   the   only 


io8 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

English  words  she  knew,  grabbed  me  with  one 
hand,  pulled  me  half  way  over  the  counter,  hoisted 
me  with  perfect  ease  clear  over  and  sat  me  gently 
down  on  a  chair  at  the  back.  I  was  like  a  baby  in 
her  grasp,  and  you  can  imagine  the  side-splitting 
roars  that  ensued.  I  felt  so  humiliated  that  had 
I  been  able  I  would  gladly  have  smacked  her  face, 
but  that  was  physically  out  of  the  question.  How- 
ever, I  made  the  best  of  my  uncomfortable  feelings 
for  the  moment  and  managed  to  enjoy  myself 
thoroughly  while  I  was  there,  because  the  hos- 
pitality of  the  sisters  knew  no  bounds;  everything 
they  had  to  eat  or  drink  was  at  our  disposal ;  they 
seemed  to  be  unable  to  do  enough  for  us. 

My  round  of  pleasure  that  afternoon  ended 
with  an  exhibition  dance  by  "Shorty"  and  the 
Giantess  of  Lebezet,  as  announced  by  one  of  the 
boys,  and  the  way  that  girl  whirled  me  off  my 
feet  was  uproariously  appreciated  by  the  audience, 
and  in  my  final  whirl  she  wound  up  by  catching 
me  and  hoisting  me  up  in  the  air  and  imprinting  a 
sound  smack  on  my  lips.  I  must  hasten  to  add 
that  this  favor  from  the  perspiring  amazon  was 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE 109 

not  at  all  to  my  liking,  but  I  couldn't  very  well 
protest  for  two  reasons :  First,  I  was  utterly  help- 
less in  her  grasp  and,  second,  it  might  have  been 
poor  taste.    So  I  joined  in  the  laugh. 

Much  happened  during  our  two  days  out,  but 
do  not  think  because  we  were  not  in  the  trenches 
that  we  were  out  of  danger.  In  a  quiet  time  the 
safest  place  sometimes  is  the  very  front  line,  as 
the  enemy  is  often  no  more  than  twenty  yards 
away  and  neither  side  dare  shell  the  other  for  fear 
of  hitting  their  own  men. 

On  our  march  from  Armentieres  there  came  a 
blinding  snow  storm,  together  with  a  wind  that 
seemed  strong  enough  to  take  us  off  our  feet.  It 
was  almost  dark  and  we  were  compelled  to  halt, 
as  the  transports  coming  the  opposite  way  were 
held  up.  We  sheltered  as  best  we  could,  but  it 
was  a  muddy  wet  bunch  of  boys  that  tramped 
into  Salle  late  that  night,  where  we  rested  till 
next  morning.  As  usual,  we  were  placed  in  barns, 
and  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  a  line  bunch  of 
straw.  I  didn't  require  any  rocking  to  sleep  that 
night. 


no HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Next  morning  a  bunch  of  us  slipped  out  and 
dined  on  the  best  in  a  partly  demolished  estaminet. 
Having  a  good  working  knowledge  of  French,  if 
the  people  speak  slowly,  I  acted  as  interpreter 
for  the  boys.  If  I  did  not  remember  the  exact 
word,  I  would  say  it  in  English.  As  Tommy 
Atkins  had  been  very  chummy  with  the  natives 
here,  they  had  acquired  some  decidedly  Billings- 
gate English;  so  in  a  mixture  of  bad  French  and 
English  profanity  we  got  along  fairly  well.  It 
was  side-splitting  though  to  hear  our  hostess 
speaking  pure  French  interlarded  with  fearful 
oaths  of  profanity  in  English,  the  nature  of  which 
she  was  entirely  ignorant.  She,  poor  soul, 
imagined  she  was  speaking  our  tongue  very  well. 

Another  luxury  came  our  way  in  the  shape  of  a 
bath  and  complete  change  of  clothing.  We  took 
our  ablutions  in  the  big  brewery  vats  and  barrels. 
Here  was  the  water  wagon  with  a  vengeance. 
After  a  grueling  afternoon  of  bayonet  fighting 
practice  we  were  away  again  till  at  last  the  now 
familiar  star  shells  told  us  that  we  were  going  to 
exchange  greetings  with  Fritz  once  more. 


i-l     rt' 


Ef  * 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE iii 

It  was  not  till  next  morning  that  we  found 
where  we  were.  Tremendous,  ear-splitting  crash- 
ing of  artillery  was  shaking  the  very  ground  under 
our  feet. 

Our  own  artillery  at  this  time  was  entirely  too 
inadequate  to  suitably  answer  the  thunderous 
message  of  the  enemy.  To  give  some  idea  of 
the  odds  against  us  in  those  days,  and  how  we 
were  out-gunned,  it  is  only  fair  to  say  to  the  peo- 
ple who  were  so  ready  to  criticize  the  Allies  that, 
apart  from  the  wonderful  French  seventy-five  mil- 
limeter guns,  our  artillery  was  practically  non  est. 
The  Germans  had  guns  ranging  from  fifteen 
pounds  to  the  gigantic  howitzers  hurling  a  shell  of 
1,800  pounds,  with  an  unlimited  supply  of  ammu- 
nition. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  for  months  the 
average  per  gun  was  about  six  shells  per  day.  Ah ! 
many  a  gallant  lad  might  be  alive  today  if  he 
had  been  properly  covered  by  artillery  in  those 
days !  And  you,  dear  reader,  do  not  forget,  when 
glorifying  in  the  deeds  of  America's  brave  lads, 
that  it  is  unfair  to  compare   present   conditions 


ii2 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

with  those  dark  days,  for  in  fairness  to  our  dead, 
it  must  be  said  that  you  in  America  are  learning 
war  from  the  nations  who  have  paid  for  their 
experience  by  bitter  losses. 

At  our  back  were  a  few  of  these  sixty-pounders, 
but,  few  as  they  were,  the  very  earth  trembled  at 
their  detonation,  making  our  ears  ring  and  our 
heads  ache.  There  is  a  peculiar  metallic  ring  in 
the  report  of  these  guns  which  seems  to  split  the 
drums  of  one's  ears.  It  causes  one  to  be  strangely 
irritable,  and  quarrels  often  took  place  which 
otherwise  never  would  have  happened,  the  sole 
cause  of  which  was  shell-shock. 

The  curious  sustained  roar  of  fire  and  answer- 
ing fire  fills  a  soldier  with  awe,  much  the  same 
feeling  as  of  a  man  viewing  a  mighty  cataract  for 
the  first  time.  The  very  ground  shakes  and  if  a 
man  is  standing  on  a  hard  road,  he  will  be  repeat- 
edly lifted  from  the  ground  by  the  shock.  Gun 
crews  suffer  from  gun-shock  and  men  are  often 
sent  down  to  recover  from,  not  so  much  the  burst- 
ing shells  of  the  enemy,  as  from  the  effect  of  the 
deafening  voices  of  their  own  pets. 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE 113 

This  effect  is  evidenced  in  a  number  of  differ- 
ent ways,  the  most  common  being  a  trickling  of 
blood  from  the  ear,  which  in  nearly  every  instance 
is  the  prelude  for  ear  trouble  for  the  remainder  of 
one's  days.  The  dazed  effect  is  shown  by  a  shiv- 
ering and  shaking  of  the  entire  body,  accompanied 
with  a  sort  of  vague,  expressionless  staring  from 
which  men  have  been  known  to  suffer  for  months 
after  they  have  left  the  firing  line. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  once  to  see  one  of  the 
first  of  the  British  heavies  to  reach  the  firing  line, 
and  to  be  present  when  it  was  fired  for  the  first 
time.  Naturally,  we  were  all  agog  to  see  one  of 
these  monsters,  for  we  had  heard  for  weeks  the 
rumor  that  they  were  coming.  It  was  one  fine 
day  in  early  spring  that  the  first  15.2  rifle  rumbled 
into  the  village  in  which  we  were  billeted.  I  did 
not  see  it  arrive,  but  Morgan  came  to  tell  me. 

"See  the  little  pea-shooter4?"  said  his  swarthi- 
ness. 

"No,  has  she  arrived4?" 

"Yes;  going  to  see  her1?" 

"  I  might  if  I  went  in  good  company." 


ii4 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"Clever,  ain't  yuh?  But  who  can  explain  pea- 
shooters better  than  your  Uncle  Dudley?" 

"Yes,  your  knowledge  extends  possibly  to  pea- 
shooters, but  this  thing  is  a  man's  gun." 

"Well,  how  in  hell  can  you  understand  it? 
Nobody  ever  mistook  you  for  a  man,  you  poor  lit- 
tle runt,"  the  last  with  such  a  look  of  compassion 
that  I  had  to  laugh. 

"All  right,  come  on." 

Quarreling  all  the  way  we  arrived  at  the  gun 
emplacement.  The  gun  supports  rested  on  a  solid 
concrete  base,  while  the  muzzle  tilted  at  an  angle 
of  about  forty-five  degrees.  The  system  of  hoist- 
ing the  enormous  shells  I  could  not  fathom,  but 
a  mass  of  wheels  and  other  machinery  seemed  to 
do  the  business  as  if  by  magic.  The  gun  had  been 
hauled  by  a  powerful  tractor  to  its  present  posi- 
tion. Brawny  six-foot  marines  of  the  Royal  Ma- 
rine Artillery  sweated  as  they  hauled  and  levered 
to  get  everything  in  shape  to  make  their  pet  com- 
fortable while  she  passed  the  time  of  day  with  the 
Boches. 

It  was  all    that   four   of   these  husky  marines 


IN  THE  FRONT  LINE 115 

could  do  to  roll  the  enormous  shells  by  the  aid  of 
crowbars. 

The  gun,  emplacement  and  impedimenta  were 
painted  to  deceive  the  keen  eye  of  the  Hun  air- 
men. A  wonderful  medley  of  colors,  but  experi- 
ence had  taught  the  Allies  by  this  time  the  proper 
shading  to  use  to  make  the  whole  thing  merge  with 
the  landscape. 

At  last  everything  was  ready  and  the  monster 
was  prepared  to  send  over  her  first  calling  card. 
The  marines  stepped  away  from  the  gun  to  the 
rear  of  an  old  barn  about  twenty  yards  off,  telling 
us  to  follow.  The  sergeant  of  the  marines  in- 
structed us  to  lie  down.  The  ground  being  rather 
muddy,  we  chose  to  disregard  his  advice.  The 
gun  roared,  we  were  knocked  flat  by  the  concus- 
sion, and  when  we  had  collected  our  wits  suffi- 
ciently to  look  around  we  found  that  the  barn  had 
been  knocked  flat  too. 

On  another  occasion,  Morgan  and  I,  at  great 
risk  to  ourselves,  had  stolen  a  liberal  ration  of  tea, 
with  its  necessary  dressing  of  sugar,  from  C  Com- 
pany's supply.     It  must  be  remembered  that  the 


n6  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

heavy  artillery  ranges  from  two  to  five  miles  back 
of  the  line  and  men  may  be  in  billets  with  these 
guns  behind  them.  Morgan  suggested  that  we 
make  our  hot  tea  between  two  walls  that  were 
yet  standing  and  we  took  an  old  pail,  and  made 
a  fire  in  it,  and  proceeded  to  brew  our  tea.  Just 
as  the  nectar  was  giving  out  a  most  fragrant  odor 
and  causing  us  some  misgivings  lest  other  prowl- 
ers should  spot  us,  the  heavies  at  that  identical 
moment  started  an  argument  with  the  Boche.  The 
air  concussion  drove  straight  between  the  two 
walls  where  the  tea-party  was  in  progress  and  car- 
ried the  fire,  the  tea  and  the  tea-party  clear  out 
on  to  the  cobbled  road,  where  all  the  elements  of 
fire,  water,  tea  and  tea-party  were  most  damnably 
mixed. 

We  both  involuntarily  exclaimed  " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SAXONS  AND   PRUSSIANS 

WE  were  to  take  over  the  trenches  from  the 
West  Yorkshire  Regiment.  An  illustra- 
tion of  the  wonderful  spy  system  of  the  Germans 
came  under  our  notice  at  this  time.  The  West 
Yorks  had  no  idea  that  any  Canadians  were  in 
Flanders,  yet  on  the  departure  of  a  relieved  Ger- 
man battalion  opposite  them,  the  latter  shouted 
across  to  the  West  Yorks  in  good  English,  "  Good- 
bye, West  Yorks,  the  Canadians  will  relieve  you 
tomorrow  night." 

We  duly  relieved  the  West  Yorks  shortly  after 
midnight.  The  Saxons  were  in  front  this  time 
and  they  gave  us  no  trouble  at  all.  In  fact,  our 
listening  patrols  found  a  notice  fixed  on  their  wire 
reading,  "  We  will  not  fire  if  you  don't.  Save  your 
ammunition  for  the  Prussians."  We  could  walk 
up  the  road  any  time  at  night  and  never  be  even 
[117] 


n8 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

sniped  at.  Indeed,  for  the  three  days  we  faced 
the  Saxons,  we  had  only  one  casualty,  a  man  had 
his  brains  blown  out,  and  unfortunately  it  was 
due  to  an  accident  caused  by  himself.  These 
Saxons  were  certainly  a  different  kettle  of  fish  to 
the  Prussians  or  Bavarians. 

I  haven't  yet  mentioned  that  although  we  were 
an  infantry  battalion,  originally  we  were  cavalry 
and  we  still  kept  our  name,  "Fifth  Western 
Cavalry,"  as  designated  by  the  yellow  letters  on 
our  shoulders.  It  was  a  big  joke  to  our  comrades 
of  the  Second  Infantry  Brigade,  and  indeed  to  the 
whole  division,  and  we  were  designated  under 
various  titles,  "The  Disappointed  Fifth,"  "The 
Wooden  Horse  Marines,"  "The  Fifth  Mounted 
Foot,"  etc.  ad  libitum,  and  we  were  always  being 
chipped  about  it.  Judge  of  our  astonishment, 
when  we  had  taken  our  places  in  the  trench  and 
were  preparing  for  the  night's  duties,  a  hail  came 
from  the  German  trenches.  We  listened  and  in 
perfect  English  a  voice  yelled,  "Hello,  you  Fifth, 
what  have  you  done  with  your  horses'?"  And  in 
the  morning,  when  peering  across  to  the  German 


SAXONS  AND  PRUSSIANS  119 

parapet  through  a  loophole  or  periscope,  the  look- 
out called  our  attention  to  something  moving  on 
the  German  parapet.  As  it  grew  lighter  we  saw 
that  it  was  a  little  wooden  horse  —  a  child's  toy 
they  had  probably  looted  from  some  house. 

"Open  fire  on  it  someone;  see  what  they'll  do," 
said  the  lookout. 

Two  or  three  of  the  boys  opened  up  on  the 
dummy  horse  and  knocked  it  down  into  their 
trench.  A  roar  of  laughter  went  up  from  our  boys 
a  moment  or  two  later  when  the  dummy  reap- 
peared, swathed  in  bandages  from  head  to  tail. 
Fritz  displayed  a  rare  sense  of  humor  in  this 
instance  and  we  enjoyed  the  joke  immensely. 

At  night  those  fellows  would  sing  songs  and 
our  boys  would  reply.  Going  along  the  road  I 
could  hear  them  jeering  and  chaffing  and  then 
start  singing  to  one  another.  However,  on  the 
third  night  the  Prussians  relieved  our  friends,  the 
Saxons,  and  the  difference  was  striking. 

Back  came  our  friends,  the  snipers,  and  bursts 
of  rapid  fire  all  night  kept  one  from  being  bored 
—  or,  I  might  say,  kept  one  bored.     Several  sen- 


120  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

tries  at  different  spots  on  the  road  were  killed  at 
their  posts.  At  one  spot  a  man  suddenly  leapt 
out  of  the  darkness  onto  an  isolated  post  and  tried 
to  disarm  our  sentry,  Mitchell,  only  to  receive  six 
inches  of  steel  in  his  stomach  for  his  pains. 

We  were  never  allowed  to  go  anywhere  alone, 
as  shots  came  from  every  direction  and  it  was 
suspected  that  men  in  civilian  clothes  were  snip- 
ing at  the  back  of  our  lines.  One  day,  at  this 
time  one  of  these  incidents  was  brought  very 
close  to  me. 

Morgan  burst  into  the  old  cellar  as  I  lay  doz- 
ing in  the  early  morning: 

"What  the  devil  do  you  want  now"?"  I  said 
irritably.  For  once  he  did  not  reply  in  his  usual 
manner,  he  was  so  full  of  his  news.  "What  do 
you  think,  chum,  do  you  remember  that  guy  that 
was  plowing  in  the  field  over  yonder*?  Well,  he 
is  the  devil  that  is  responsible  for  the  casualties 
in  the  ration  party  and  those  sentries." 

"How  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"  You  know  Lieutenant  M — ?  Well,  the  other 
day  the  lieutenant  looked  over  at  the  fellow  plow- 


SAXONS  AND  PRUSSIANS  121 

ing  and  he  noticed  something  that  we  mucks  never 
tumbled  to  before.  Now,  think  it  over,  chum; 
use  your  own  brains;  don't  you  remember  that 
field  was  never  shelled  with  anything  but  shrap- 
nel and  light  shrapnel  at  that1?" 

"God!  yes,"  says  I,  "that's  right." 

"Well,  the  lieutenant  got  suspicious,  took  over 
a  file  of  the  kids  from  the  cross  roads  farm  and 
goes  over  to  investigate." 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on." 

"He  reaches  the  fellow  plowing  and  something 
in  the  man's  face  told  him  that  he  had  hit  it  right. 
Well,  you  know  that  straw  he  had  wound  around 
the  plow  handles  and  down  to  the  mold  board'? 
Well,  shoved  down  in  the  straw  was  one  of  those 
damned  Mauser  carbines;  you  remember  the  kind 
the  A.  S.  C.  used  in  Africa4?  Well,  the  minute 
the  lieutenant  laid  his  hand  on  the  plow  handle, 
the  bloke's  face  turned  ashy  gray,  -and  when  he 
grabbed  the  carbine  the  dog  turned  green  and 
flopped  down  with  funk,  and  then  the  lieutenant 
was  sure  of  his  man." 

A  light  dawned  on  me  as  Morgan  stopped  for 


122  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

want  of  breath,  as  there  came  back  to  me  the 
memory  of  the  dead  sentry  I  found  when  I  went 
to  relieve  him  at  that  very  cross  roads. 
.  "  For  God's  sake !     What  did  they  do  with  the 
cur?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  for  sure,  but  it's  a  safe 
guess,  as  they  have  taken  his  horses  for  transport 
work  and  you  can  bet  he  will  do  no  sniping  for- 
evermore." 

This  was  only  one  of  many  instances  where 
Germans  use  all  sorts  of  devices  to  "get"  our 
boys  in  the  back. 

Our  billet  came  in  for  the  German  gunners' 
attention  next  day  and  a  woman  walking  up  the 
road  was  killed.  Such  a  scene  of  heart-rending 
grief  on  the  part  of  the  woman's  husband  and 
children  I  do  not  want  to  see  again. 

Carrying  barbed  wire  at  night  over  that  awful 
mud  and  by  those  gaping  craters  was  our  task 
and  this  time  it  was  dangerous  work  as  we  were 
exposed  constantly.  We  were  in  for  five  days  of  it 
this  trick.  Big  Bill  Skerry  seemed  to  fit  naturally 
into  dangerous  jobs  and  Bill  was  the  non-com. 


SAXONS  AND  PRUSSIANS  123 

in  the  barbed  wire  gang.  His  duties  took  him 
out  in  front  every  night  in  No  Man's  Land  and 
his  work  together  with  the  gang  was  to  repair  the 
wire,  set  up  new  wire,  cut  the  enemy's  wire,  and 
generally  do  his  damndest  to  cause  Fritz  trouble 
with  his  own  wire. 

I  was  standing  in  the  trench,  resting  after  one 
of  our  journeys,  when  a  big  figure  hoisted  itself 
over  the  parapet  and  dropped  by  my  side.  It  was 
Bill. 

"Hello,  Bub,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  think 
of  this'?"  showing  me  the  side  of  his  jersey  and 
pants.  A  machine  gun  had  narrowly  missed  cut- 
ting him  to  pieces  and  the  whole  of  the  left  side 
of  his  clothes  was  simply  riddled;  his  escape  was 
nothing  short  of  miraculous;  in  fact,  it  was 
uncanny.  Bill  silently  rolled  a  cigarette  and 
smoked  awhile  without  saying  anything.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  "So  long,  Bub,"  ("Bub"  was  my 
pet  name  with  all  my  intimates)  Bill  started  to 
mount  the  parapet  again. 

"Where  on  earth  are  you  going  to  now?"  I 
asked  with  a  gasp. 


i£4 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"I'm  going  to  try  and  get  that  machine  gun." 

I  heard  and  saw  nothing  of  him  until  daylight, 
when  he  brushed  past  me. 

"Did  you  get  the  gun,  Bill?" 

"I  didn't  get  the  gun,"  he  said  with  a  grim 
smile,  but — pointing  to  his  bayonet  blade  — 
"there's  the  gunner."  Sure  enough  it  was  stained 
a  deep  red. 

Poor  Bill !  he  was  always  taking  chances  of 
that  kind  and  he  always  got  away  with  them. 

During  this  time  we  fed  sumptuously  as  we 
were  bagging  hares  every  day,  while  potatoes, 
leeks,  onions,  etc.,  were  still  in  good  condition  in 
parts  of  the  field. 

On  our  last  night  in  this  billet  I  came  almost  to 
earning  the  D.  C.  M.  (distinguished  conduct 
medal).  I  was  on  sentry  the  two  hours  after  mid- 
night. One  has  to  be  very  wide  awake  so  near 
the  line,  and  every  little  thing  that  looks  in  any 
way  suspicious  must  be  investigated.  The  night 
was  quiet  in  our  own  lines,  but  away  to  the  left 
a  tremendous  cannonade  and  rifle  firing  was  going 
on.    An  occasional  German  souvenir  would  whine 


SAXONS  AND  PRUSSIANS  125 

above  my  head.  Things  that  look  very  simple 
and  plain  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when 
the  sun  is  shining,  have  a  very  different  appear- 
ance at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  on  the  front 
line.  At  the  end  of  my  beat  was  a  huge  yew  bush, 
giving  the  place  a  somber,  weird  effect.  As  I  was 
turning  my  back  on  the  bush  during  one  of  my 
rounds,  every  single  hair  of  my  closely  cropped 
skull  rose  on  end,  while  my  scalp  literally  crawled, 
as  a  rustling  noise  came  from  the  bush.  My  first 
instinct  was  to  start  for  the  south  of  France,  as 
quickly  as  my  legs  could  take  me,  but  reason  and 
duty  came  to  my  rescue.  Still  terrified,  a  blind 
fury  took  possession  of  me  at  the  thing  that  scared 
me.  Holding  my  rifle  and  bayonet  at  the 
"ready,"  I  ran  into  the  bush  at  the  top  of  my 
speed  and  lunged  with  all  my  might  into  its  depth, 
being  brought  up  suddenly  and  sharply  by  a 
forked  branch  under  my  chin. 

The  result  of  my  charge  was  a  melancholy 
meow,  and  I  cursed  softly,  but  with  infinite  relief 
at  the  cause  of  my  panic.  Thinking  the  cat  might 
be  a  good  companion,  I  made  overtures  by  softly 


126  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

calling  to  her,  and  nothing  loath  she  came,  and 
when  dawn  broke  a  small  figure  in  khaki  might 
have  been  seen  strolling  slowly  up  and  down  the 
road,  with  a  huge  black  cat  alternately  dodging 
between  his  legs  and  rubbing  her  sleek  hide 
against  his  muddy  puttees. 


o 


CHAPTER  XV 

TRAINING    FOR  RUNNER 

UR  next  move  was  to  the  town  of  E- 


the  best  town  we  had  yet  "honored"  with 
our  presence.  We  reached  here  in  the  dead  of 
night  and  awoke  the  sleeping  inhabitants  by 
lustily  informing  them  that,  "Here  We  Are 
Again."  Another  classic  of  the  Canadian  Divi- 
sion went  echoing  over  the  place,  a  well-known 
American  hymn  —  "Hail,  Hail,  the  Gang's  All 
Here."  Twenty-four  hours  had  not  passed  be- 
fore the  long-suffering  citizens  were  only  too 
well  aware  that  the  gang  was  all  there. 

It  was  while  we  were  stopping  at  the  city  of 

E on  one  of  our  rest  billets  that  I  first  began 

my  training  as  a  company  runner.  These  runners 
were  formed  after  Neuve  Chapelle.  In  that 
engagement  disastrous  results  followed  the  cut- 
ting of  all  telephone  communication,  and  it  was 
[127] 


128  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

suggested  that  men  be  trained  to  run  with  mes- 
sages when  other  means  could  not  be  used.  Being 
small,  though  not  slight,  and  active,  I  was  chosen 
for  this  duty  and  my  training  began.  In  such 
condition  were  we  that  in  two  weeks'  time  I  could 
carry  forty  pounds  comfortably  at  a  jog  trot  for 
a  distance  of  five  miles. 

Of  the  utmost  importance  was  the  carrying  and 
delivering  of  messages  correctly.  An  amusing  in- 
stance of  the  difficulty  of  doing  this  occurred 
while  being  trained.  We  were  running  at  relays 
and  we  would  do  our  work  exactly  as  it  would  be 
done  in  the  heat  of  battle,  and  the  first  man  was 
given  the  message,  "To  O.  C.  Seventh  Battalion: 
Am  held  up  by  barbed  wire  entanglements;  send 
reinforcements  to  my  right."  When  the  message 
was  delivered  by  the  seventh  and  last  man  of  the 
relay,  the  officer  receiving  it  got  the  following 
astounding  information,  "Am  surrounded  by  wild 
Italians;  lend  me  three-  and  fourpence  till  to- 
night." 

A  period  of  intense  training  followed,  chiefly 
instruction  in  trench  making,  including  attacking 


TRAINING  FOR  RUNNER 129 

and  defending,  and  for  us  runners  a  grueling  spell 
of  practice  in  carrying  messages  and  endurance 
work. 

At  this  place  we  would  dash  along  the  canal 
bank  in  our  early  morning's  training,  exchanging 
greetings  in  execrable  French  with  the  owners  of 
the  barges  that  floated  lazily  down  the  stream. 
Next,  we  would  meet  a  bunch  of  Sikhs,  who  would 
gravely  extend  greetings  in  their  dignified  manner. 
Farther  along  a  group  of  Hindoo  cavalrymen,  rid- 
ing their  horses  with  superb  grace,  would  smile 
at  us,  informing  us  in  what  English  they  knew 
that  they  would  sooner  ride  than  run,  with  which 
we  agreed.  Huge  Pathans,  dwarfing  us  by  their 
tremendous  height,  would  gaze  in  grave  wonder 
at  these  foolish  Feringhees. 

After  our  run  we  would  strip  and,  shouting 
with  health  and  laughter,  hurl  ourselves  into  the 
icy  waters  of  the  canal,  much  to  the  wonder  of  the 
ladies  of  the  barges,  who  gazed  unabashed  at  our 
naked  beauty. 

With  these  splendid  open-air  exercises  we  were 
continually  undergoing,  it  is  little  wonder  that 


T3Q HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  resources  of  the  commissariat  were  at  times 
sadly  taxed  to  meet  the  voracious  demands  of  our 
appetites. 

After  breakfast  the  runners  would  fall  in,  in 
front  of  the  battalion,  for  the  purpose  of  carry- 
ing messages  backwards  and  forwards  —  all  done 
with  the  idea  of  still  further  improving  the  dis- 
cipline necessary  for  that  most  important  work, 
which  must  be  done  without  any  errors  as  there 
is  no  room  for  excuses  of  any  kind. 

To  many  people  the  work  of  a  runner  is  an  un- 
known quantity  but  its  tremendous  importance 
is  told  by  Neuve  Chapelle.  On  March  10,  1915, 
the  advance  there  and  the  fearful  casualties  to  the 
British  forces  warned  everyone  of  the  nature  of 
the  German  defenses.  It  was  our  first  advance 
since  November,  1914,  but  the  ground  gained 
wasn't  worth  the  price  paid.  One  of  the 
causes  of  the  premature  holding  up  of  the  attack- 
ing troops  was  the  failure  of  reinforcements 
to  be  hurled  in  at  the  proper  time:  this,  in  turn, 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  all  telephonic  communi- 
cation had  been  cut  off,  and  that  although  men 


TRAINING  FOR  RUNNER  131 

were  sent  on  foot  with  messages,  it  was  found,  if 
they  arrived  at  their  destination  at  all,  that  they 
bungled  the  message  unless  it  were  a  written  one. 
Since  that  time  the  staff  has  been  thoroughly 
awake  to  the  dire  need  of  having  properly  trained 
runners  who  can  endure  the  utmost  strain  for 
such  duties. 

Other  regiments  of  the  British  Army  were  bil- 
leted here,  and  the  endless  stream  of  traffic  was  a 
sight  to  see.  Infantry  would  swing  through  the 
streets  —  short  thickset  Tommies,  tall  and  dignified 
Sikhs,  gigantic  Pathans,  short,  stocky  Gurkhas, 
lithe  Canucks,  all  making  a  wondrously  interesting 
procession.  Transports,  limbers  and  ambulances 
rattled  and  roared  unceasingly  over  the  cobbles. 

Many  interesting  scraps  took  place  between  va- 
rious champions  of  regimental  traditions.  Here 
a  burly  Highlander  and  an  English  cavalryman 
exchanged  fisticuffs  for  a  minute,  until  a  guard 
turned  out  and  seized  the  unruly  ones. 

One  enterprising  Frenchman  hung  out  a  sign 
bearing  the  magic  legend,  "Bass  in  bottle — 
Guinness'  Stout,"  and  in  half  an  hour  the  est  ami' 


132 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

net  was  jammed  with  husky  humanity.  In  less 
than  no  time  the  nectar  was  exhausted,  but  not  the 
soldierly  thirst,  and  the  disappointed  ones  became 
so  unruly  that  the  services  of  the  guard  were  again 
required.  My  good  angel  was  with  me  that  day, 
for  I  managed  to  possess  myself  of  two  full  bottles 
of  Guinness'  and,  keeping  up  the  reputation  of  the 
battalion,  it  didn't  cost  me  anything. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BY  THE  WAYSIDE 

BEING  very  much  interested  in  the  habits  of 
the  Indian  troops  I  would  often  be  found 
studying  them  at  a  respectful  distance ;  their  rigid 
laws  of  caste  obliged  me  to  keep  somewhat  apart 
from  them.  One  day  an  unexpected  opportunity 
of  gratifying  my  curiosity  came  my  way.  Off 
duty  for  the  afternoon  I  went  for  a  stroll  in  the 
country  and  on  turning  a  corner  of  the  road  I  saw 
a  big,  tall  Sikh  gravely  studying  a  tree  by  the  road- 
side. He  looked  up  as  I  approached,  "  Ram,  ram, 
Sahib,"  said  he.  "Ram,  ram,  yourself,"  says  I. 
It  was  all  the  English  he  knew  and  all  the  Indian 
I  knew. 

Seeing  my  jackknife  at  my  side  he  managed  to 

impress  on  me  that  he  wanted  to  know  if  we  used 

the  jackknife  for  stabbing.    By  signs  I  replied  that 

if  necessary  we  would.    Now,  around  the  turban 

[  m] 


134  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

of  every  Sikh  I  had  noticed  a  ring  of  steel,  about 
six  inches  in  diameter,  and  my  curiosity  in  regard 
to  it  had  never  been  satisfied;  here,  I  thought,  was 
the  chance  to  find  out.  Still  standing  at  a  respect- 
ful distance,  I  pointed  to  his  turban,  turning  my 
hand  round  in  imitation  of  a  ring,  and  I  indicated 
I  wanted  to  know  its  use.  Showing  his  splendid 
teeth  for  a  second  in  a  smile  of  understanding,  he 
took  the  ring  with  a  curious  motion  from  his  tur- 
ban, and  spinning  it  around  his  hand  for  the  frac- 
tion of  a  second,  he  hurled  it  at  the  tree.  My  eyes 
bulged  with  astonishment,  for  the  ring  sank  for 
half  its  diameter  into  the  hard  bole  of  the  tree.  I 
went  to  examine  it,  but  dared  not  touch  it  for  fear 
of  offending  some  tradition  connected  with  the 
ring.  I  found  that  the  ring  was  really  a  circular 
knife,  the  outside  edge  being  very  keen  and  sharp, 
then  thickening  away  to  the  inside.  It  will  be 
seen  that  the  whirling  motion,  preparatory  to 
throwing,  imparts  a  spin  to  this  peculiar  weapon. 
A  man's  arm,  leg  or  head  will  part  company  with 
the  trunk  if  struck. 

My  Sikh  friend  smiled  gravely,  recovered  his 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE 135 

turban  ring,  bowed  with  grace,  and  with  a  "  Salaam 
Sahib"  turned  with  great  dignity  on  his  heel  and 
stalked  majestically  away. 

I  also  was  mightily  interested  in  the  short, 
stocky  Gurkhas,  those  wonderful  troops  from 
Nepal.  These  men,  although  small,  are  wonders 
of  strength  and  endurance.  Mountaineers  and  sol- 
diers from  childhood,  their  greatest  joy  is  hand 
to  hand  combat.  Perhaps  a  description  of  their 
favorite  weapon,  the  terrible  kukri,  would  be  of 
interest.  It  is  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  inches  long, 
with  a  keen  edge,  tapering  from  a  thickness  at  the 
back  of  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch,  to  a  razor-like 
edge.  The  handle  or  haft  is  of  wood,  bound 
tightly  with  copper  wire,  the  distance  between 
each  band  of  wire  being  enough  for  a  man's  finger 
to  snugly  enclose  itself  around  the  handle.  These 
little  smiling  men  are  equally  adept  at  throwing 
or  using  the  knife  at  close  quarters. 

It  is  useless  for  a  man  to  try  to  escape  by  run- 
ning, since  before  he  has  gone  more  than  ten  yards 
he  is  minus  a  head. 

It  was  curious  to  watch  them  killing  goats  for 


136 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

their  meat  supply.  The  goat  would  be  browsing 
comfortably,  when  something  would  flash  through 
the  air,  and  to  the  onlooker's  amazement,  a  head- 
less goat  would  stagger  a  few  yards  and  then  fall. 
Later  on,  these  troops  were  removed  to  warmer 
fronts,  for  the  bleak  winters  of  northern  France 
and  Flanders  proved  disastrous  to  the  Indian  con- 
stitution. 

To  show  the  resourcefulness  of  the  Canadian 
soldier,  the  following  incident  is  an  illustration: 
Big  Bill  Skerry,  one  of  the  boys  named  Walworth, 
and  Big  Bill  Bradley  were  left  on  the  other  side 
of  the  canal  from  their  billets.  At  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening  the  bridge  was  drawn  up  making  it 
impossible  to  cross.  The  three  worthies  ap- 
proached the  bridge  end  at  about  10  P.  M.  Alas 
for  human  weakness,  they  had  contrived  to  soften 
the  heart  of  a  French  lady  and  she  had  given  them 
a  liberal  portion  of  cognac.  They  were  by  no 
means  intoxicated,  but  sufficiently  stimulated  to 
make  the  night  echo  with  their  songs  of  gladness. 
Arriving  at  the  bridge  they  were  challenged  by  a 
sentry.     The  following  conversation  took  place: 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE 137 

From  the  sentry:  "Halt,  who  are  you1?"  "Go 
to  hell,"  was  the  retort.  "Well,  I  don't  know 
about  that,"  says  the  sentry,  "but  you're  going  in 
the  clink,  and  you'll  get  hell  from  the  Old  Man." 
The  reply  was  a  splash  as  Skerry  took  a  header 
into  the  icy  waters  of  the  canal.  Like  a  flash  Wal- 
worth and  Bradley  followed  suit  and  the  trio, 
fully  dressed  as  they  were,  swam  the  canal.  They 
almost  ran  from  the  frying  pan  into  the  fire,  for 
they  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  jeer  the 
sentry  from  the  other  side  of  the  canal.  They  had 
apparently  forgotten  that  another  guard  was  sta- 
tioned at  the  other  bridge  end.  However,  they 
melted  into  the  night,  stepping  over  our  bodies  as 
they  entered  the  factory  where  we  were  sleeping, 
to  receive  a  heartfelt  cursing  from  those  who  were 
subjected  to  a  shower  from  their  dripping  clothes. 
Every  day  punctually  at  6  P.  M.  the  massed 
Kiltie  Band'  would  parade  in  front  of  the  old 
Hotel  De  Ville  or  town  hall.  It  was  a  curious 
sight.  The  stalwart  Highlanders  gazing  neither 
to  right  nor  left,  swaggering  up  and  down  on  the 
old  cobbled  square,  Tommies,  Canucks,  French- 


138 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

men,  Gurkhas,  Sikhs,  Pathans  and  French  Colo- 
nial troops  would  gather  round  and  a  babel  of 
tongues  would  soar  skywards.  Just  at  the  minute 
of  six  all  would  be  hushed  and  a  silence  uncanny 
would  hang  over  the  place.  The  "  Retreat"  would 
sound,  and  the  Highlanders  would  start  their 
tatoo. 

I  have  mentioned,  I  believe,  the  irritating 
parasites  who  so  lovingly  crowd  in  the  seams  of  a 
man's  shirt.  Even  these  pests,  which  are  an  in- 
voluntary growth  born  of  the  natural  heat  of  the 
body  and  accumulated  moisture,  become  more  or 
less  endurable,  and  the  inevitable  fatalism  of  the 
soldier  shows  even  in  the  matter  of  body  lice. 

Libby,  Morgan,  Fitzpatrick  and  Bill  Skerry 
were  holding  a  heated  argument  as  to  the  relation- 
ship of  the  Canadian  louse  to  its  Flanders'  proto- 
type, and  the  discussion,  which  was  held  in  the 
midst  of  a  hunting  expedition,  took  the  turn  that 
each  was  ready  to  back  with  money  the  assertion 
that  the  particular  brand  of  louse  with  which  he 
was  associated  day  and  night  was  superior  in  color, 
size,  and  ferocity  to  any  that  the  others  possessed. 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE 139 

"How  about  this  gent*? "  says  Morgan,  exhibit- 
ing a  particularly  husky  specimen  that  he  had 
captured  in  the  seam  of  his  shirt.  Morgan,  as  I 
have  said,  was  dark  in  complexion  almost  to 
swarthiness. 

"That  dark  streak  down  its  back,"  chimes  in 
Libby,  "  comes  from  boring  through  your  damned 
black  skin." 

"Aw,  hell,"  replied  Morgan,  "if  their  color  is 
made  by  what  they  eat,  then  yours  must  be  the 
color  of  a  checker-board." 

This  was  an  allusion  to  Libby's  partially  gray 
hair. 

"No,  they  ain't,"  said  the  imperturbable  Libby, 
bringing  out  a  specimen  fully  the  equal  of  Mor- 
gan's, and  actually  lighter  in  color. 

Morgan  gazed  thoughtfully  down  on  his  cap- 
ture and,  pushing  his  cap  back  on  his  head  and 
speaking  slowly,  addressed  it: 

"  You  blankety-blank,  I  believe  that  it  was  you 
that  browsed  on  the  middle  of  my  spine  the  last 
time  I  did  sentry  at  headquarters  in  Marching 
Order.     I  hate  like  hell  to  do  it,  for  you  have 


140  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

grown  dear  to  me,  and  your  color  I  know  would 
delight  the  eye  of  a  blinkin'  artist,  yet  I  can't  al- 
low you  to  divert  me  from  my  duty  so  as  to  en- 
danger the  efficiency  of  the  forces  of  His  Majesty, 
King  George,  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  and 
the  Dominions  beyond  the  seas,  and  you  must  pay 
the  penalty." 

Snap !  and  it  went  the  way  of  all  flesh  and  the 
chase  was  resumed. 

Although  we  had  trained  as  infantry,  most  of  us 
wore  the  riding  pants  or  Bedford  cords  of  a  cav- 
alry battalion.  Being  now  a  runner  I  appealed, 
as  did  the  other  runners,  for  something  not  so  tight 
around  the  knees.  We  were  given  infantry  slacks 
which  allowed  freer  motion  of  the  limbs.  Our 
orders  were  to  burn  vermin-infested  clothing,  and 
although  I  was  sure  I  had  rid  myself  of  mine,  I 
decided,  when  I  changed  my  clothes  in  the  billet, 
to  burn  my  riding  pants. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  throw  them  into  the  fire 
a  diminutive  French  gamin  asked  me  to  give  him 
the  pants.  "All  right,  son,"  says  I,  handing  him 
the  garment.    The  boy  was  wise  in  his  generation. 


From   photo   by    the   author. 

A  WINTERLY   MORNING. 


Front   photo   by   the   author. 

WRITING  TO  THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE 141 

Turning  them  inside  out  he  examined  the  seams, 
and,  something  arousing  his  suspicion,  he  hurled 
them  into  the  fire  as  if  something  had  bitten  him. 
"  No,  no,  Monsieur,"  says  he,  "  tres  beaucoup  itchy 
coo"  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  scratching  him- 
self as  he  turned  his  back  on  the  pants.  The  shrug, 
the  scratch  and  the  gesture  was  inimitable  and 
done  as  only  French  expressiveness  can  render  it. 

One  of  the  finest  regiments  of  French's  "Con- 
temptible Little  Army"  was  the  "Notts  and 
Derbys"  (Nottingham  and  Derbyshire).  They 
covered  themselves  with  glory  in  the  Great  Re- 
treat. Several  titles  have  been  conferred  upon 
them  by  popular  affection,  such  as  "The  Sherwood 
Foresters,"  "The  Robin  Hoods,"  etc.  Coming 
as  they  do  from  the  ancient  haunts  of  Robin  Hood 
and  his  merry  band,  their  regimental  crests  and 
badges  represent  the  Archers  of  Sherwood. 

One  day,  while  on  the  march,  we  met  the  Robin 
Hoods,  and  as  the  two  regiments  passed  each  other 
a  storm  of  good-natured  chaff  flew  back  and  forth, 
and  one  of  the  Robin  Hoods,  noting  by  our  shoul- 
der badges  that  we  were  a  cavalry  battalion,  yelled 


142 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

in  his  broad  Midland  accent,  '"Ello,  you  blokes, 
wot  ha'  ye  done  wi'  yer  bloody  'osses4?"  Back 
came  the  answer  like  a  flash,  "We  packed  'em 
away  with  your  blankety-blank  bows  and  arrows 
years  ago." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

STEENVOORDE 

AFTER  a  stay  of  a  week  at  E we  again 
got  orders  to  move,  eventually  arriving  in 
the  little  town  of  Steenvoorde.  We  sported 
here  for  a  few  days  at  cricket,  football,  and  base- 
ball. 

I  acquired  in  this  burg  a  repugnance  for  res- 
taurant coffee  that  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to 
overcome.  The  sergeants  of  my  platoon  were  in 
the  habit  of  consulting  together  directly  after  duty 
at  the  house  of  a  good  old  dame  who  was  re- 
nowned for  her  excellent  cafe  au  lait,  and  the  non- 
coms,  seldom  missed  an  opportunity  of  partaking. 

On  one  occasion  when  they  were  there,  seeing 
me  pass  the  window,  they  hailed  me  to  come  in 
and  join  them.  As  I  was  broke  at  the  time,  I  has- 
tened to  accept  the  invitation. 

"  Want  a  good  cup  of  coffee,  son,"  said  Camp- 
bell. 

[143] 


144 HOLDING  THE  LINE  

"Thanks,  I  will." 

Campbell  pointed  to  the  cup  and  I  drained  it 
down. 

"Have  another,  Shorty,"  said  Britton. 

"  Don't  mind,"  says  I. 

"Hop  to  it,  son,"  and  another  went  the  same 
route. 

They  could  hold  themselves  no  longer  and 
roared  with  laughter.  I  was  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand their  mirth,  and  happening  to  glance  at  the 
old  lady,  a  light  broke  in  upon  me.  The  poor 
lady  had  one  very  bad  eye  from  which  tears, 
copious  tears,  dripped  with  sickening  regularity, 
and  as  she  busied  herself  around  the  coffee  cups, 
the  tears  would  drop  now  and  again  into  the 
cups. 

In  spite  of  my  disgust,  I  couldn't  help  joining 
in  the  laugh,  although  I  had  an  almost  ungovern- 
able desire  to  vomit.  The  secret  of  it  all  was  that 
they  themselves  had  been  up  against  the  same 
dose  and  they  wanted  someone  else  to  share  with 
them  the  burden  of  the  coffee  and  tears. 

Sometimes  on  the  march,  should  I  happen  to  be 


STEENVOORDE 145 

grouchy  about  anything,  Campbell,  with  his  win- 
ning smile,  would  say,  "  Never  mind,  son,  it  won't 
be  long  before  we'll  be  back  having  a  good  cup  of 
coffee."  And  then  the  memory  of  that  treat  would 
dispel  my  grouch. 

One  of  our  boys,  McBean,  had  an  instinctive 
horror  of  rats;  it  was  a  marked  fear  that  he  could 
not  overcome.  Returning  from  parade  one  day, 
Mc  was  lying  on  the  straw  in  the  barn,  reading  a 
letter,  with  the  thatched  roof  of  the  barn  directly 
at  the  back  of  his  head.  His  cap  was  lying  beside 
him  and  suddenly,  a  huge  rat  scuttled  past  his 
head.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  deafening 
shout  of  terror.  The  rat  took  refuge  in  the  thatch 
of  the  roof.  Fixing  his  bayonet  to  his  rifle,  while 
one  of  the  boys  sounded  "Charge,"  Mc  lunged 
ferociously  into  the  thatch.  We  never  imagined  he 
would  get  the  creature,  but  to  our  astonishment, 
at  about  the  third  lunge,  he  drew  back  the  bayonet, 
with  the  rat  kicking  its  last  kick  on  the  bayonet's 
point. 

Soon  after  this  Mc  had  a  splendid  opportunity 
of  demonstrating  his  ability  to  stick  his  needle  (as 


1 46 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  bayonet  was  termed)  into  the  bodies  of  our 
German  foes  and  he  ably  exemplified  his  skill. 

An  inspection  of  the  officers  and  non-commis- 
sioned officers  by  General  Smith-Dorrien  and  a 
general  inspection  of  the  whole  division  by  the 
general  officer  ended  our  stay  at  Steenvoorde,  and 
one  morning  we  were  packed  aboard  London  om- 
nibuses, with  the  advertisements  still  upon  them 
asserting  the  superiority  of  Pears'  Soap  to  any 
other  soap  on  the  market,  and  rode  for  some  dis- 
tance, finally  being  dumped  at  a  small  hamlet 
where  the  Royal  Welsh  Fusileers  were  resting. 
These  good  fellows  showed  us  the  greatest  hos- 
pitality, sharing  their  rations  and  making  us  big 
draughts  of  the  inevitable,  but  none  the  less  wel- 
come tea. 

Our  battalion  football  team  played  the  Welsh- 
men, winning  by  the  odd  goal  in  three. 

With  mutual  expressions  of  good  will,  we 
parted  from  the  Royal  Welsh,  resuming  our  jour- 
ney on  foot. 

One  of  our  diversions  from  the  horrors  of  war 
here  was  unique,  to  say  the  least.    We  bought  up 


STEENVQORDE 147 

every  fighting  rooster  in  the  neighborhood  from 
the  natives  and  made  arrangements  to  have  an  ex- 
hibition of  cockfighting  worthy  a  Roman  cele- 
bration. We  backed  B  Company's  bird  to  the 
limit  of  our  resources  as  our  bird  was  selected  by 
a  lad  who  was  an  expert  on  the  game  and  a  past- 
master  on  all  its  points.  So  we  felt  perfect  con- 
fidence in  his  judgment,  and  our  faith  was  not 
disappointed. 

A  proper  cockpit  was  made  in  an  orchard  and 
the  reserved  seats  were  in  apple  trees  and  brought 
two  francs  apiece  per  man.  Every  reserved  seat 
in  every  tree  was  occupied;  there  wasn't  room  for 
half  the  patrons.  I  lost  mine  before  the  perform- 
ance was  over  through  the  collapse  of  the  bloom- 
ing tree  and  every  man  on  that  tree  lost  the  seat 
that  he  had  bought  and  paid  for,  but,  owing  to  my 
convenient  size,  I  was  able  to  get  a  good  view  of 
the  balance  of  the  show  seated  on  Big  Bill  Skerry's 
shoulders. 

To  the  huge  delight  of  us  all,  B  Company's  bird 
emerged  a  dilapidated  but  triumphant  winner 
from  all  its  contests,  coming  out  with  final  hon- 


148 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

ors.  In  addition  to  the  rooster  fight  there  were 
several  differences  of  opinion  between  connoisseurs 
as  to  the  points  involved  in  the  game  of  cockfight- 
ing,  which  finally  resulted  in  heated  fisticuffs  and 
black  eyes,  and  altogether  we  easily  had  our  two 
francs'  worth. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

YPRES 

AT  last  we  entered  the  historic  town  of  Ypres. 
Our  first  impression  was  the  flash  of  burst- 
ing shells  over  a  distant  corner  of  the  town.  At 
this  time  Ypres,  although  showing  traces  of  recent 
bombardment,  was  in  the  main  intact  and  we  were 
very  much  interested  in  the  fine  buildings  there. 
The  famous  Cloth  Hall  was  in  good  condition,  as 
was  the  splendid  church ;  however,  some  fine  stone 
buildings  lay  in  ruins. 

An  amusing  incident  might  here  be  told  of  the 
"lack  of  humor"  of  the  Britisher:  Two  battalions 
were  passing  each  other  in  the  dead  of  night,  two 
companies  of  one  battalion  carrying  with  them 
wooden  crosses  to  be  placed  at  the  heads  of  the 
graves  of  some  of  the  lads  who  had  fallen  the  day 
before  and  who  were  to  be  buried  at  the  back  of 
the  line.  The  British  Regiment  could  not  see  the 
[M9] 


150 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Colonials,  and  vice  versa;  but  an  enterprising 
Cockney  determined  to  identify  the  regiment. 
Stealing  away  from  his  ranks,  he  sidled  across, 
like  a  good  soldier,  stooping  to  get  a  better  sky- 
line, and  just  at  that  moment  a  series  of  bursting 
flares  from  up  the  line  lit  up  the  square  for  a  sec- 
ond, but  it  was  long  enough  for  the  keen-sighted 
Tommy  to  see  who  the  other  battalion  was  and 
what  they  were  carrying.  In  a  half-whispered, 
half-hushed  shout  he  turned  to  his  comrades 
ejaculating,  "Well,  strike  me  pink,  mates,  if  those 
blokes  ain't  carrying  their  own  bloomin'  tomb- 
stones." 

As  we  were  passing  through  the  square  it  was 
almost  dark  and  we  were  startled  to  hear  a  yell 
from  the  other  side,  "  We  should  worry ! "  It  was 
the  Princess  Pats.  The  usual  order  for  compara- 
tive silence  was  given,  and  we  knew  we  were  close 
to  business  again. 

Searchlights  were  playing  everywhere,  artillery 
roared,  and  bursts  of  rapid  fire  told  us  we  had  ar- 
rived at  the  place  where  "the  Allemands  are  very 
truculent,"  as  General  Smith-Dorrien  put  it.     It 


YPRES 151 

was  now  the  turn  of  the  other  companies  for  fa- 
tigue work  and  they  were  placed  in  the  village 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  front  ditch.  Our 
platoon  took  up  dugouts  under  the  hedge.  So 
cunningly  were  these  made  that  a  person  walk- 
ing on  the  other  side  of  the  road  would  hardly  see 
them,  even  in  the  daytime.  They  had  been  oc- 
cupied by  French  troops  and,  however  valiant 
our  Allies  are,  they  are  far  from  being  as  clean 
as  the  British  soldiers,  and  the  first  thing  we 
did  was  to  go  to  work  to  make  these  dugouts  a 
little  less  offensive  to  our  nostrils.  These  holes 
of  ours  were  only  two  feet  six  inches  high,  just 
enough  room  to  turn,  and  when  we  wished  to 
sleep,  the  first  man  was  obliged  to  crawl  in  and 
the  rest  follow  on.  It  reminds  me  of  the  family 
who  lived  in  one  room  and  slept  in  one  bed  so 
closely  packed  in  that  when  one  wanted  to  turn 
there  was  no  way  of  turning  unless  all  the  others 
did. 

We  made  ourselves  comfortable  as  far  as  cir- 
cumstances would  permit  and  composed  ourselves 
to  sleep. 


152  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Morning  came  and  we  had  a  look  round.  Fritz 
was  exchanging  compliments  with  a  battery  of 
French  seventy-fives  and  several  shells  whistled 
most  uncomfortably  through  the  poplar  trees  on 
each  side  of  the  road.  I,  for  one,  considered  the 
dugouts  the  best  place  to  observe  shell  fire.  The 
rest  of  the  boys  shared  my  opinion  and  we  lay  till 
the  gunners  had  retired  to  dejeuner  (breakfast). 

Then  we  emerged  like  human  rats  and  break- 
fasted on  hot  bacon,  bread  and  coffee.  After 
washing  myself  thoroughly  in  a  shell  crater,  I  felt 
at  peace  with  all  the  world,  even  the  Germans, 
and  having  nothing  much  to  do,  Morgan  and  I 
took  a  stroll  to  see  the  country.  In  front  of  us, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road  was  a  row  of  French 
graves,  and  while  we  were  here  we  kept  them  in 
first-class  condition.  A  field  of  "volunteer" 
wheat  waved  in  the  breeze  and  a  shell  of  a  house 
surrounded  by  apple  and  pear  trees  in  full  bloom, 
stood  at  the  corner.  It  must  have  been  a  lovely 
place  before  this  conflict  of  hell  swept  over  it. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BATTLE    OF    YPRES 

IT  may  perhaps  seem  strange  that  we  should 
exercise  so  much  care  within  the  precincts  of 
our  own  lines,  but  there  were  two  reasons  for  it: 
The  first  one  was  that  the  ramifications  of  the  Ger- 
man spy  system  extended  to  our  own  ranks  and 
there  was  always  a  possibility  that  a  man  in  khaki, 
whom  you  would  take  for  a  fellow  soldier  and 
pass  with  a  nod,  would  put  a  bullet  through  your 
head  the  moment  your  back  was  turned.  That 
element  of  German  espionage,  strange  and  incredi- 
ble as  it  may  sound,  is  something  with  which  the 
military  authorities  have  constantly  to  contend. 

The  other  reason  for  exercising  extreme  care  is 
that  many  poor  people,  half  demented  by  the  hor- 
rors they  have  witnessed  and  the  indignities  and 
wrongs  they  have  been  subjected  to,  secrete  them- 
selves in  all  kinds  of  places,  and  they  do  not  wait 
[153] 


154 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

to  see  who  approaches,  but  will  shoot  or  stab  at 
sight.  I  saw  a  man  from  the  Worcesters  shot  dead 
by  a  poor  demented  woman  in  this  condition  in 
Ypres. 

Away  to  our  left  was   the  village  of  L 

absolutely  deserted.  Being  curious,  we  grabbed 
our  rifles  and  searched  the  village.  It  was  a  big 
place,  but  was  shelled  out  of  all  shape.  We  ran 
upon  occasional  decomposing  bodies  of  Germans, 
English,  women,  dogs  and  fowl.  It  gave  one  the 
most  eerie  feeling  to  see  this  place.  In  fancy  we 
could  feel  the  silence  that  brooded  over  it.  Utter 
desolation  everywhere.  The  sound  of  a  bit  of 
falling  plaster,  or  the  slightest  rustle,  would  send 
us  flying  to  the  nearest  cover  to  wait  with  rifles 
ready,  like  Mr.  Micawber,  "  For  something  to 
turn  up." 

Here  Morgan  was  surprised  into  letting  his  af- 
fection for  me  show  through.  Every  fancied  dan- 
ger, and  he  would  instinctively  place  himself  in 
front  of  me,  and  when  we  flew  for  cover  he  un- 
consciously took  up  the  most  exposed  position. 
My  chum's  solicitude  for  my  well-being  has  al- 


BATTLE  OF  YPRES 155 

ways  seemed,  to  me  at  least,  unexplainable,  yet 
such  was  the  fact. 

We  returned  from  the  village,  making  a  detour 
of  a  few  hundred  yards  in  front  of  the  road.  The 
land  around  was  shelled  everywhere,  each  few 
yards  showing  a  hole,  some  big  enough  to  engult 
a  house.  It  spoke  volumes  for  the  fighting  that 
had  taken  place  in  this  now  historic  spot.  It  was 
here  that  the  Guards,  Lincolns  and  other  famous 
regiments  smashed  up  the  Prussian  Guards  in  the 
first  battle  of  Ypres.  In  places  there  were  heads, 
hands  and  feet  sticking  out  of  the  ground.  In 
one  old  trench  laid  fully  sixty  dead  Boches  half 
exhumed.  Broken  rifles,  ammunition,  equipment, 
broken  machine  guns  of  every  kind  lay  about. 
It  was  here  that  the  Canadians  were  to  make  their 
grand  debut  into  the  history  of  the  war. 

The  day  was  beautiful,  the  larks  singing  away 
as  if  nothing  was  wrong  with  the  world,  and  Mor- 
gan, feeling  the  influence  of  the  day  upon  him, 
apparently  forgot  the  war  and  raised  his  voice  in 
song  —  a  new  phase  of  his  character — and  hymns 
and  songs  by  the  dozen  poured  from  his  throat. 


156 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

That  night  rumors  began  to  circulate  that  Fritz 
intended  mischief,  and  the  roaring  of  a  trench 
mortar  and  burst  of  rapid  fire  was  the  signal  for 
pandemonium  to  begin.  From  end  to  end  of  the 
line  it  was  taken  up,  and  we  began  to  think  some- 
thing was  really  happening.  A  sergeant  came 
along  shouting  my  name.  Finding  me  he  rushed 
me  to  the  officers;  a  staff  officer  was  talking  and 
they  were  deeply  absorbed.  I  immediately  learned 
that  the  rumors  were  not  unfounded. 

I  was  dispatched  to  headquarters  with  a  written 
message.  Captain  Hopkins  gave  me  my  instruc- 
tions. "  I  have  chosen  you  because  you  keep  the 
pace  up  longer  than  the  rest."  This  compliment 
deeply  pleased  me.  "Go  to  headquarters  as 
quickly  as  your  legs  will  carry  you,  report  imme- 
diately you  get  there  and  place  yourself  under  the 
orders  of  Sergeant  C ." 

The  words  were  barely  out  of  his  mouth  when  I 
was  out  of  the  cellar,  and  down  that  gloomy  road 
I  scudded,  a  queer  mixture  of  terror  and  elation  — 
terror  because  of  what  might  happen  to  me,  and 
elation  in  the  satisfaction  of  doing  my  duty.  Hard 


BATTLE  OF  YPRES 157 

as  I  traveled  I  was  breathing  with  perfect  ease 
when  I  arrived  at  headquarters  and  reported.  I 
was  told  to  lie  down  as  it  might  be  hours  before  I 
would  again  have  a  chance  to  rest.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  sleep  as  file  after  file  of  bombers  and  rein- 
forcements piled  into  the  different  buildings.  I 
found  out  that  the  Germans  were  expected  to  at- 
tack the  French  that  night  on  the  left  of  the  sali- 
ent, some  hundred  yards  or  so  from  our  position. 

The  signal,  if  the  Huns  attacked  the  French, 
was  to  be  three  red  flares  flying  up  in  rapid  suc- 
cession. Our  Intelligence  Department  was  not 
asleep;  the  attack  was  expected  at  three  o'clock 
and  promptly  on  the  minute  it  began.  The  French 
held  easily  and  we  were  not  needed. 

Next  morning  I  was  sent  back  to  my  platoon 
and  nothing  very  exciting  happened  except  the 
sharp  shelling  by  Fritz  of  our  position  until  about 
ten  o'clock,  when  a  thing  new  to  our  experience 
came  over.  The  noise  was  appalling.  It  was  the 
commencement  of  the  awful  bombardment  of 
Ypres. 


T 


CHAPTER  XX 

HELL    LET    LOOSE 

HAT  night  we  relieved  the  Tenth  Battalion 
and  took  over  the  front  line.  Right  from 
the  beginning  casualties  piled  up;  the  shell  fire 
was  terrific.  In  the  lulls  of  the  bombardment  we 
dug  frantically  to  consolidate  our  flimsy  defenses. 
Barbed  wire  we  had  none;  we  simply  threw  out  in 
front  any  obstructions  we  could  find. 

One  amusing  incident  occurred  here ;  I  laugh  at 
it  now,  although  I  did  not  at  the  time.  The  little 
dark  man,  Libby,  was  the  hero.  Libby  translated 
means  "Coolness  and  indifference  to  danger."  A 
volume  could  be  written  of  the  events  in  which 
this  man  figured  that  for  sheer  daring  almost  sur- 
passed belief.  Libby  and  I  were  working  on  a 
traverse,  which,  as  every  one  knows,  is  a  cross-sec- 
tion of  trench,  and  we  were  exerting  every  effort 
to  fill  bags  of  dirt  and  pile  them  up  on  this  cross- 
section. 

[158] 


HELL  LET  LOOSE 159 

Buried  underneath  our  trench  were  dead  men 
planted  as  thickly  as  they  could  be  laid.  Digging 
down  I  turned  up  a  boot  containing  a  foot.  "  Stick 
it  in,"  said  Libby. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  touch  that  thing 
with  my  hand'?" 

"What's  the  odds,"  said  he,  "but  if  you  don't 
want  to,  shove  it  on  the  shovel  with  your  foot." 

I  did  so  and  he  placed  it  in  the  sack,  I  holding 
the  sack  open,  and  the  grisly  thing  touched  my 
hand  in  passing.  I  shuddered,  almost  fainted,  but 
never  a  sign  of  perturbation  from  Libby.  Again 
he  dug,  this  time  bringing  up  the  other  foot,  with 
the  leg  bone  still  sticking. 

"Shove  her  in,"  he  said. 

Sweating  with  horror,  yet  fearing  his  scorn,  I 
again  rolled  the  ghastly  thing  on  the  shovel  and 
it  was  then  transferred  to  the  sack.  Placing  the 
sack  on  the  corner  of  the  traverse,  the  little  man 
coolly  slapped  it  out  with  his  spade  as  if  he  were 
handling  common  dirt.  He  then  called  to  me  for 
another  sack,  but  I  was  lying  on  the  parados,  sick 
with  horror  and  vomiting  my  insides  out.    So  for 


160 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  time  being  he  had  to  continue  his  ghoulish 
work  alone. 

Morning  came,  finding  us  still  at  work  and  al- 
most dead  with  fatigue.  The  bombardment  con- 
tinued without  intermission  all  through  that  day 
and  afternoon,  and  our  casualties  were  growing 
with  deadly  regularity.  At  nightfall  it  died  down 
in  our  vicinity,  but  never  ceased  at  our  back. 

The  object  of  this  will  be  easily  seen.  They 
kept  hammering  the  roads  and  the  whole  country 
at  the  rear  of  the  front  line,  in  order  to  keep  re- 
serves and  supplies  from  getting  to  us,  and  they 
did  the  job  so  thoroughly  that  no  two  transports 
could  get  within  miles. 

Good  old  Bill  Skerry  and  a  man  named  Brad- 
ley, braved  this  bombardment  on  purpose  to  be 
with  their  own  battalion  when  the  attack,  which 
we  all  knew  was  bound  to  come,  took  place. 

They  told  us  how  the  Germans  had  been  using 
a  horrible  gas,  that  the  French  Algerian  troops  had 
evacuated  their  trenches,  that  the  battalions  in  re- 
serve at  Ypres  had  been  called  out  and  had  gal- 
lantly come  up  through  that  curtain  of  shell  fire, 


From   photo   by    the   author. 

THERE  ARE  LEISURE   HOURS  EVEN   IX  THE  FRONT 
TRENCH. 


From   photo   by   the   author. 


CLEANING-UP  TIME. 


HELL  LET  LOOSE 161 

taking  up  the  French  trenches  and  were  holding 
on  like  limpets,  although  their  losses  were  terrible. 

The  glorious  charge  of  the  Tenth  and  Sixteenth 
had  taken  place  and  is  now  eternal  history  for 
Canada.  Just  think  of  it,  that  thin  line  of  men 
with  no  artillery  to  cover  them,  holding  back  the 
mass  of  the  enemy  ten  times  their  number. 

It  now  became  an  anxiety  to  us  to  know  how 
they  were  faring,  for  if  they  were  obliged  to  give 
way  we  would  be  entirely  cut  off.  However,  it 
was  no  use  wasting  time  in  idle  questioning,  so  to 
work  we  went,  frantically  making  our  trenches  as 
strong  as  possible. 

Fritz  again  got  busy  with  his  weeping  pill  and 
our  eyes  were  something  to  remember.  The  smart 
was  terrible,  while  the  awful  odor  got  in  our 
throats,  making  them  raw  and  every  breath  a  pain. 

Still  we  worked  steadily  on,  throwing  over 
everything  that  might  prove  an  obstacle  in  front 
of  the  trenches.  Listening  patrols  were  sent  out 
and  came  back  with  the  news  that  the  Germans 
were  unmistakably  massing  for  an  assault. 

For  myself,  so  nervous  was  I  that  I  would  have 


162 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

welcomed  an  attack  to  end  the  suspense.  How- 
ever, we  were  left  in  peace  till  daybreak,  which 
came  with  a  drizzling  rain.  This  made  condi- 
tions in  the  trench  very  bad  indeed.  But  all  we 
could  do  was  to  sit  tight  and  wait. 

When  it  was  almost  light  the  bombardment 
started  again.  It  was  one  roaring,  shrieking  blast 
of  destruction.  Never  can  I  describe  the  din,  the 
awful  rumble  of  the  heavy-weight  champions; 
the  magnified  thunderclap  of  their  heavy  shrap- 
nel; the  moaning  of  the  Black  Marias;  the  hiss 
and  scream  of  their  medium-size  shells,  and  the 
hated  whiz  bangs,  bursting  over  every  section  of 
the  trench.  And,  remember,  not  a  British  gun  to 
reply.  Hell's  gaping  craters  were  open  every- 
where ;  now  and  again  a  shriek  or  an  oath  told  that 
some  lad  had  been  stricken  down;  our  parapets 
were  crumbling  like  matchwood;  but  all  we  could 
do  was  to  wait. 

To  the  sorrow  of  every  one  of  us,  the  gallant 
soul  of  Bill  Skerry  took  its  flight  to  his  Maker 
about  ten  o'clock  that  morning.  A  small  shell 
ricochetting  from  a  stunted  willow  tree  simply 


HELL  LET  LOOSE 163 

tore  him  to  pieces,  along  with  a  little  chap  named 
Wellbelove,  which  was  his  family  name,  and  a 
name  he  most  aptly  deserved. 

Bill !  one  of  our  best  beloved  mates.  We  never 
had  time  to  bury  him,  but,  thank  God,  he  didn't 
fall  alive  into  the  hands  of  those  human  devils.  A 
curious  effect  of  the  shell  burst  was  to  lengthen 
out  his  body.  When  alive  and  well  he  was  a  man 
of  six  feet  two,  and  when  we  examined  him  after 
his  death,  he  easily  measured  seven  feet.  The 
sorrow  of  his  little  chum,  Fitzpatrick,  was  over- 
whelming; nothing  could  comfort  him  for  days. 

It  was  here  that  I  first  felt  real  fear.  Terror  of 
course  we  all  have,  but  that  soul-gripping  inaction 
took  all  manhood  away  from  me  as  I  crouched  in 
the  bottom  of  the  trench,  trying  with  might  and 
main  to  appear  unconcerned.  I  have  never  expe- 
rienced quite  the  same  sensation  of  fear  in  the 
front  line  at  any  time  as  I  did  that  night;  I  felt 
deadly  danger  on  every  hand  and  my  face  and 
head  were  wet  with  cold  sweat. 

In  curious  contrast  to  my  constitutional  dread 
of  the  danger  abounding  on  every  hand  was  a  man 


1 64 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

who  happened  to  have  possessed  himself  of  a 
fairly  dried  dugout.  With  that  torrent  of  shell 
hurtling  everywhere,  he  calmly  read  chapter  after 
chapter  of  a  magazine,  apparently  as  deeply  in- 
terested as  if  he  were  sitting  in  his  own  room  at 
home.  How  I  envied  him  his  nerves  —  or,  rather, 
the  absolute  lack  of  them. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HANGING    ON 

ABOUT  fifty  yards  to  the  rear  of  us  was  a 
huge  pile  of  bricks,  fully  a  hundred  yards 
long  by  thirty  feet  high.  The  ground  we  were 
occupying  had  originally  been  a  brick  yard  and 
these  bricks  had  been  put  out  to  dry,  but  the  war 
coming  on  they  had  been  left  and  had  gradually 
settled  down  into  a  solid  mass. 

Someone  was  rash  enough  to  show  himself  for 
a' second  near  the  brick  pile,  and  it  was  his  last 
second.  It  had  become  a  joke  that  they  would 
snipe  at  you  with  a  fifteen-pound  shell  at  Ypres, 
and  the  Bodies  evidently  imagined  there  were  men 
near  the  brick  pile,  for  they  took  one  shot  as  a 
sighter  and  then  turned  their  heaviest  field  guns 
on  it.  The  huge  pile  looked  strong  enough  to  last 
for  a  week,  yet  by  night  it  was  a  crumbling 
powder. 

[165] 


1 66 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

This  added  a  very  disagreeable  fury  to  the  bom- 
bardment. The  huge  shells  would  burst  with  a 
crumbling  crash,  a  great  sheet  of  flame  would 
flicker  for  an  instant,  then  from  out  the  pall  of 
acrid  smoke,  flying  bricks  would  hurtle  for  yards. 
Dozens  of  them  flew  back  into  our  trench  and  I 
still  bear  the  marks  on  my  back  and  hands  where 
flying  pieces  of  brick  caught  me. 

Several  men  were  killed  by  these  curious  mis- 
siles, while  all  of  us  were  bleeding  from  cuts  and 
scratches  caused  by  the  wounds. 

On  went  the  bombardment  and  nothing  seemed 
to  exist  but  a  riot  of  noise,  flying  shrapnel,  flashes, 
and  the  steady  drizzle  of  the  rain.  Twice  during 
the  day  we  stood  to  retire,  but  each  time  the  major 
sent  word  that,  "We  are  holding  on  and  we  can 
hold  them  'till  the  cows  come  home.'" 

Luckily,  owing  to  the  heroism  of  our  signalers, 
the  line  to  headquarters  remained  intact.  These 
fine  boys  repaired  the  line  time  and  again  under 
shell  and  machine  gun  fire  of  the  fiercest  nature. 
One  fellow  earned  the  V.  C.  a  dozen  times  during 
the  day;  he  exposed  himself  recklessly,  working 


HELL  LET  LOOSE 167 

with  all  his  might  in  the  very  heart  of  the  German 
barrage.  He  is  still  living,  but  was  badly  hurt 
later  on  at  Festubert. 

Toward  evening  we  managed  to  get  the 
wounded  out  and  were  I  to  tell  the  entire  story  of 
the  self-sacrifice  of  the  boys,  it  alone  would  fill  a 
larger  volume  than  this.  They  were  obliged  to 
carry  the  wounded  along  an  old  communication 
trench  about  six  feet  deep,  with  mud  two  feet  deep 
at  the  bottom,  then  emerge  into  the  shell-swept 
open  for  a  distance  of  two  or  three  hundred  yards. 
Curiously  enough,  very  few  of  the  wounded  were 
again  hit  traveling  this  road,  and  "Long" 
Mitchell,  a  boy  from  Michigan,  and  another  boy, 
Manville,  from  Prince  Albert,  walked  time  and 
again  down  that  highway  of  hell  with  their 
wounded  comrades.  Apparently  they  did  not 
know  the  sheer  heroism  of  their  tasks,  and  prob- 
ably don't  know  to  this  day. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

HERE  THEY   COME 

SERGEANT  CAMPBELL,  one  of  the  finest 
soldiers  I  ever  met  in  my  life,  called  me  and 
asked  me  to  run  to  the  dressing  station  and  tell 
them  there  that  none  of  our  boys,  who  had  gone 
down  with  the  wounded,  were  to  attempt  to  return 
to  the  trenches  till  after  dark.  Away  I  started, 
never  expecting  to  get  to  my  destination,  but 
doing  something  dispelled  my  "yellow  streak" 
and  I  arrived  there  intact. 

What  a  sight  met  my  eyes !  Row  after  row  of 
brawny  Canadian  Highlanders  lay  raving  and 
gasping  with  the  effects  of  the  horrible  gas,  and 
those  nearing  their  end  were  almost  as  black  as 
coal.  It  was  too  awful  —  and  my  nerves  went 
snap! 

However,  a  lull  came  at  night,  except  for  the 

steady  fighting  on  our  left,  where  the  Seventh  and 

Eighth  were  making  history,  and  I  managed  to  get 
[168] 


HERE  THEY  COME 169 

back  all  right,  and  repairing  trenches  was  again 
the  order  of  the  moment. 

A  fine,  handsome  Scotch  lad,  Jim  Muirhead,  one 
of  my  best  chums,  was  working  with  me  repairing 
a  section  of  trench.  At  this  place  we  hadn't  any 
sandbags,  but  simply  had  to  pile  up  the  loose  earth 
in  front  of  us.  Deep  down  in  the  ground  we  had 
made  two  sloping  holes,  propping  up  the  top  by 
odd  timbers  we  found  lying  about.  We  did  this 
to  save  ourselves  from  a  big  shell  Fritz  would 
occasionally  lob  over  in  our  immediate  vicinity. 
Now  Jim  is  about  six  feet  high  and  his  hole  was  a 
big  one,  mine  a  small  one.  We  could  hear  this 
shell  coming  and  if  we  moved  quickly,  we  gained 
the  shelter  of  our  holes  before  it  burst.  Once,  we 
heard  the  faint  pop  in  the  distance  and  then  a 
gradually  increasing  shriek;  it  was  coming — to 
my  excited  fancy  —  straight  for  our  heads.  In  my 
panic  to  escape  the  crack  of  doom  I  hurled  myself 
into  Jim's  hole,  beating  him  by  about  the  fiftieth 
of  a  second. 

"  Get  to  hell  into  your  own  hole." 

"Go  to  the  devil." 


I7Q HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Our  colloquy  was  barely  ended  when  the  shell 
burst,  but  this  time  it  was  too  far  off  to  do  any 
damage.  I  was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  my  self- 
ishness, which  was  due  to  the  first  instinct  of  na- 
ture, but  good  old  Jim  saw  nothing  in  it  but  a  good 
joke  on  himself. 

All  night  long  to  left  and  right  the  scrap  went 
on,  just  one  steady  crackle  of  rifle  and  machine 
gun  fire,  while  from  every  angle  they  shelled  the 
Seventh  Battalion.  Their  trenches  were  simply 
one  huge  shamble,  but  they  held.  Morning  came, 
and  still  the  bombardment  raged. 

At  about  three  in  the  afternoon  we  saw  a  figure 
approaching  our  trenches  and  by  his  style  we  knew 
it  to  be  our  dear  old  major.  On  he  came  in  spite 
of  the  fire. 

By  this  time  Fritz  was  spraying  our  parapet  top 
with  machine  guns  and  we  knew  he  was  at  last 
going  to  try  us.  Still,  on  came  the  old  soldier. 
He  was  well  over  sixty,  but  a  hero's  heart  be- 
longed to  him.  Orders  had  come  through  from 
headquarters  for  the  Fifth  to  retire  and  all  the 
staff  at  headquarters  had  been   either  killed  or 


HERE  THEY  COME 171 

wounded  with  the  exception  of  the  major  and 
Captain  Hillion,  our  adjutant,  a  soldier  from  his 
feet  up.  These  two  decided,  after  vainly  trying 
the  field  telephone,  to  give  us  our  orders  by  word 
of  mouth  and  they  set  out  on  foot. 

Captain  Hillion  was  hit  before  he  had  gone 
fifty  yards  and  the  old  major  was  left  to  make  it 
alone.  He  managed  to  get  within  fifty  yards  of 
us  and  then  received  two  bullets  in  his  body.  And 
then  the  wonder  of  it  —  the  sheer,  dogged  spirit 
of  that  old  warrior !  Above  everything  we  heard 
his  yell  of  pain,  yet  instead  of  giving  up,  he  gath- 
ered himself  together  and  with  a  staggering  run 
reached  the  trench  and  collapsed.  Not  till  he  had 
delivered  his  message  did  he  give  way  and  swoon. 

Things  now  were  stirring  with  a  vengeance.  We 
knew  by  the  cessation  of  the  shell  fire  over  our 
trenches  that  they  were  coming.  I  looked  through 
a  loophole  and  my  heart  seemed  to  choke  in  my 
throat.  If  it  had  not  been  more  dangerous  to  run 
than  to  stay  where  I  was,  I  would  have  been  run- 
ning yet.  To  my  magnified  imagination  I  never 
believed  the  earth  held  so  many  people.     They 


172 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

came  swarming  over  their  parapet  in  huge  waves, 
the  flash  of  their  bayonets  making  my  spine  crawl. 
Singing,  cheering,  cursing  and  shouting,  they  came 
on,  but  we  never  fired  a  shot. 

"Not  till  they  are  near  our  barbed  wire,"  was 
the  order. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  fire!  "  I  groaned  mentally. 

On  they  came  with  trumpets  continually  play- 
ing their  charge.  At  last  the  order  came.  "  Fire !  " 
and  when  I  saw  them  falling  in  heaps,  every  drop 
of  blood  in  my  body  surged  with  a  desire  to  kill 
and  I  blazed  away  into  the  mass  of  shrieking  hu- 
manity as  fast  as  my  fingers  could  click  the  shells 
in  and  out  of  my  rifle.  I  could  not  miss  them  if  I 
tried,  so  thick  were  they. 

We  checked  them  momentarily,  but  suddenly 
bullets  began  to  come  at  us  from  our  rear  and  we 
knew  they  had  broken  through  somewhere  and 
were  behind  us.  The  mob  in  front  having  quit  for 
awhile,  we  waited  for  the  next  move.  The  bullets 
from  behind  kept  us  wondering  where  they  had 
made  a  gap  in  our  lines. 

"Get  ready  to  retire,"  came  the  order,  so  we 


HERE  THEY  COME  173 

slipped  off  all  but  our  ammunition  and  water;  few 
of  us  had  any  of  the  precious  liquid  left. 

Little  Hilliard,  who  was  next  to  me,  said, 
"  Well,  Bub,  we'll  have  a  cigarette  anyway  before 
we  cash  in."  "All  right,"  I  replied  and  we  rolled 
a  cigarette  apiece,  thinking  we  were  having  our 
last  smoke.  We  did  not  know  for  sure,  but 
guessed  that  we  were  surrounded.  Our  lack  of 
knowledge  of  our  own  situation  may  seem  curious, 
but  a  modern  battle  field  is  on  such  a  vast  scale 
that  only  in  your  immediate  neighborhood  do  you 
know  what  is  happening.  In  these  (for  me)  dull 
piping  times  of  peace,  when  I  look  back  and  scan 
my  memory  over  the  individual  behavior  of  my 
chums,  the  nerve  they  displayed  surpasses  my 
power  of  description.  As  we  were  lying  there 
smoking  what  I  thought  was  to  be  our  last  fag,  I 
was  utterly  amazed  at  the  next  words  of  Hilliard : 

"Say,  Bub,  that  must  be  Picric  acid  that  makes 
our  eyes  smart  so;  those  shells  I  bet  haven't  come 
more  than  fourteen  hundred  yards.  Did  you  see 
the  burst  of  that  last  one4?"  he  asked,  pointing 
to  the  place  where  a  "coal  box"  had  landed.     I 


174  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

made  no  reply;  I  was  too  frightened  to  bother  my 
head  about  what  the  shells  contained.  But  Hil- 
liard  persisted  in  getting  my  opinion  about  the 
matter  and  made  me  think  he  was  far  more  inter- 
ested in  that  detail  than  in  the  fact  that  it  was  the 
most  probable  thing  on  earth  that  he  would  be  dead 
within  a  few  minutes.  However,  this  situation 
did  not  seem  to  worry  him  at  all ;  he  kept  on  smok- 
ing till  the  end.  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  say,  that 
so  far  as  I  know,  he  came  through  with  only  the 
loss  of  an  arm. 

As  the  ground  sloped  away  toward  Ypres  we 
could  see  for  some  distance  down  that  way  and 
our  hearts  bounded  as  two  thin  lines  of  men  came 
toward  us  in  skirmishing  order. 

"Can  it  be  reinforcements?"  asked  Hilliard. 

"It  can  be  nothing  else,"  said  I,  and  then  we 
witnessed  a  sight  that  made  us  want  to  cheer  with 
all  our  might.  The  coolness  of  those  men  was 
wonderful;  steady  as  a  rock  they  came.  They 
were  British  regulars,  and  now  you  will  know 
why  all  of  us  who  have  been  at  the  front  have 
such  an  admiration  for  the  British  soldier.    They 


otRMAN    TRENCHES 


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□  Dressing 
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Of 


The   break   on   both    sides   of  the   Fifth's   trenches    shows 
how   perilouslj   close  they  came  to  being  cut  off  by  the  envel- 

i  .pin-    I  Inns.  [See  page   174] 


HERE  THEY  COME 175 

trotted  steadily  in  two  long  lines  for  about  a  hun- 
dred yards,  then  down  for  a  brief  rest,  then  up 
and  on  again,  all  done  by  the  arm  signals.  Officers 
dropped  on  every  hand,  but  others  instantly  took 
up  their  duties  and  like  a  finely  regulated  machine 
on  they  came  —  all  done  under  a  murderous  fire, 
but  never  a  flinch.  It  was  a  marvel  of  coolness 
and  iron  discipline. 

After  witnessing  that  advance  of  the  North- 
umberland Fusileers  and  the  Cheshires  I  have 
ceased  to  marvel  at  the  Great  Retirement  of 
Mons;  those  wonderful  feats  of  fighting  seem  to 
me  now  to  be  the  entirely  natural  thing  for  the 
British  soldier  to  do. 

Suddenly  on  our  left  a  bedlam  of  German 
cheers  cleared  all  doubts  of  their  being  through, 
and  the  order  came  for  us  to  retire.  Back  we  went 
to  save  ourselves  from  being  flanked.  So  close  a  call 
was  it  that  the  last  man  was  only  fifty  yards  from 
Fritz.  Our  old  major  asked  our  boys  to  leave 
him,  and  of  course  they  refused;  but  it  was  by  the 
skin  of  their  teeth  they  got  him  out. 

Thank  God  the  old  major  is  still  living  and 


176 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

back  again  with  his  boys.  He  refused  a  comfort- 
able staff  billet  in  England  on  his  recovery.  "My 
place  is  with  the  boys,"  he  said,  and  he  is  with 
them  today.     God  bless  him ! 

By  some  marvel  we  fell  back  safely  till  we 
met  the  Northumberlands,  but  how  we  did  it  is 
more  than  I  can  tell.  One  thing  I  shall  always 
remember.  As  we  filed  out  of  the  trench  Sergeant 
Campbell  stood  in  full  view  of  the  oncoming  Ger- 
mans till  the  last  sound  man  was  out,  quietly 
seeing  to  it  that  we  did  not  get  unsteady.  After 
we  were  all  out,  with  the  exception  of  some  of  the 
wounded — alas,  some  of  them  had  to  be  left,  and 
I  leave  the  reader  to  guess  their  fate  —  we  joined  up 
with  the  Northumberlands,  and  as  we  came  past 
these  Tommies  they  let  out  a  terrific  cheer  for  us. 
More  to  us  than  all  the  eulogies  of  generals  or 
newspapers  was  that  cheer  from  our  brother  sol- 
diers. And  when  one  remembers  that  it  was  given 
while  a  hail  of  bullets  was  being  poured  upon 
them,  and  they  were  dropping  down,  killed  and 
wounded,  some  idea  may  be  had  of  the  uncon- 
querable spirit  of  those  men   and   the  sporting 


PIERE  THEY  COME 177 

blood  that  courses  through  their  veins.  And  if 
you  have  never  known  it  before,  you  now  know 
why  they  are  able  to  "play  the  game"  as  the 
Germans  never  can. 

That  cheer  was  an  acknowledgment  to  the  men 
from  Canada  for  the  work  we  had  done. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FIGHTING  FOR  OUR  LIVES 

WHEN  we  joined  on  with  the  Fighting 
Fifth,  as  the  Northumberland  boys  are  so 
aptly  named,  I  was  sent  with  a  message  to  the 
O.  C.  of  the  Cheshires,  but  could  not  get  back 
to  my  own  battalion,  so  I  stayed  with  the  North- 
umberlands.  How  can  I  describe  the  scene !  The 
riot  of  noise,  the  never-ceasing  hell-hiss,  the 
scream  and  roar  of  shells,  everywhere  blazing 
buildings  and  everywhere  writhing  or  ominously 
still  figures. 

Star  shells  were  beginning  to  flare  up  as  it  was 
almost  twilight,  the  weird  green  lights  glinting 
on  the  bayonets  of  the  oncoming  Germans.  Firmly 
the  Northumberlands  waited,  quietly  and  con- 
fidently, and  then  I  learned  what  disciplined  cour- 
age really  is.  With  wild  shouting  and  trumpeting 
and  a  kind  of  prolonged  "Ah-h-h"  the  mass  of 
[178] 


FIGHTING  FOR  OUR  LIVES  179 

Bochc  infantry  came  steadily  on.  I  began  to 
fidget;  I  preferred  the  noise  Fritz  was  making  to 
the  awful  quiet  of  our  own  men. 

Silently,  yet  with  celerity,  little  short  of  mar- 
velous, ammunition  boxes  were  ripped  open  and 
bandoliers  distributed  in  a  quarter  of  the  time  it 
takes  to  write  it.  A  burly  corporal,  noticing  my 
itching  to  fire,  chuckling,  said,  "Take  thy  toime, 
lad."  The  corporal  gave  me  almost  confidence, 
so  cool  was  he.  I  felt  better  and  waited  for  the 
word.  At  last,  when  they  were  within  fifty  yards, 
the  order  came  to  "Let  go."  It  was  then  I  under- 
stood what  rapid  fire  meant.  The  way  the  troops 
worked  their  Lee-Enfields  made  me  doubly  curse 
that  Ross  toy. 

The  Ross  rifle  at  this  stage  of  the  game  verified 
the  prophecy  of  the  corporal  of  the  East  Lanks. 
The  reader  will  remember  the  conversation  in  the 
dugout  at  Armentieres.  To  my  dismay,  when  I 
began  to  fire  with  rapidity,  the  cursed  bayonet 
shook  itself  clear  of  the  rifle.  I  had  fired  about 
six  rounds  when  the  bolt  refused  to  work.  The 
rifle  was  hopelessly  jammed,  and  I  tried  to  ham- 


i8o HOLDING  THE  LINE 

mer  the  bolt  open  by  placing  the  butt  on  the  floor 
of  the  trench  and  stamping  on  the  knob  of  the 
bolt  with  my  heel.  It  was  hopeless,  however,  and 
I  hurled  "the  thing"  in  the  direction  of  the  ad- 
vancing Germans,  with  a  scream  of  fury  that 
pierced  even  that  infernal  din. 

The  flimsy  magazine-spring  of  these  rifles  often 
fails  to  work,  and,  generally,  at  the  most  critical 
moment.  As  a  sniper's  rifle,  the  Ross  is  every- 
thing to  be  desired;  but  when  fifteen  rounds  per 
minute  have  to  be  ripped  off  to  make  up  for  a 
lack  of  machine  guns,  the  Ross  is  a  miserable 
failure. 

The  front  of  the  Germans  just  crumpled.  It 
was  horrible.  From  yelling  it  changed  to  one  pro- 
longed wail.  Firing  like  lightning,  but  with  awful 
effect,  the  two  machine  guns  pumping  into  their 
midst,  the  boys  held  them  back.  So  close  a  shave 
was  it,  that  a  few  of  them  penetrated  right  on  to 
our  parapet.  They  were  bayoneted  on  the  instant. 
They  were  fine  big  men,  mostly  Prussians  and  Ba- 
varians, but  terrible  was  the  price  they  paid  for 
their  advance. 


FIGHTING  FOR  OUR  LIVES  181 

I  thought  of  our  poor  fellows  writhing  in  agony 
from  the  gas  poisoning,  and  any  feelings  of  pity 
were  easily  suppressed.  In  fact,  at  the  time  I 
fairly  exulted  in  seeing  them  mown  down.  Three 
times  that  night  they  launched  attacks  and  at  their 
third  attempt  succeeded  in  again  forcing  us  to  re- 
tire by  sheer  weight. 

Contrary  to  so  many,  I  consider  the  Boche  a 
brave  man.  Their  advance  at  this  time  proved  it. 
They  were  literally  mowed  down  at  times  when 
attacking;  but,  still,  they  came  on,  scarcely  falter- 
ing. As  an  individualist,  Fritz  is,  to  a  degree, 
inferior  to  the  poilu  or  Tommy.  The  perfection 
of  the  Prussian  war  machine  has  this  flaw  —  its 
iron  discipline  has  killed  the  initiative  of  its  pri- 
vate soldiers.  Without  their  officers  they  seem  to 
wilt  and,  in  many  cases,  promptly  surrender.  At 
this  time,  however,  Fritzie  was  flushed  with  the 
thrill  of  pushing  us  back,  and,  therefore,  full  of 
fight.  Any  prisoners  we  took  were  always  ready 
to  inform  us  that  Germany  was  invincible,  and 
that  their  release  would  soon  follow. 

Do  not,  dear  reader,  call  the  Boche  coward  be- 


1 82 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

cause  he  surrenders.  For  you,  it  is  easy  to  say  you 
would  fight  to  the  death  rather  than  be  taken  pris- 
oner, but  consider  a  man  who  has  endured  a  week's 
bombardment  —  crash !  crash !  crr-r-r-r-mp !  Roar- 
ing, blasting,  one  hideous  din,  for  days;  every- 
thing being  smashed  to  smithereens;  the  smoke, 
the  fumes,  the  stench,  and  last,  but  not  least,  dead 
and  mangled  comrades  lying  around. 

Now,  think  how  much  fight  there  would  be  left 
in  you. 

Shell  fire  will  destroy  the  morale  of  any  sol- 
dier, for  when  a  man  is  fair  enough  to  look  facts 
in  the  face,  he  will  acknowledge  that  courage  is 
common  to  any  nation.  No  nation  has  a  monop- 
oly of  it,  and  the  German  has  his  share. 

In  these  days,  perhaps,  he  gives  in  rather  easily ; 
but  he  is  getting  hell  from  the  Allied  artillery  — 
at  least  on  the  Western  Front.  And,  who  knows, 
perhaps  doubts  of  their  ultimate  triumph  have  be- 
gun to  assail  them.  I  have  seen  them  fight  well 
with  the  bayonet,  and  a  clump  on  my  head  from 
a  Hun  no  bigger  than  myself  I  well  remember.  I 
hate  to  admit  it,  but  he  licked  me  honestly  and 


FIGHTING  FOR  OUR  LIVES  183 

fairly;  and  only  his  sportsmanship  saved  me.  He 
simply  knocked  me  silly  —  and  passed  on.  I  hate 
and  loathe  their  barbarity — I  hate  them  for  bring- 
ing this  hell  upon  the  world,  but  I  am  English, 
and  as  such,  must  give  the  other  fellow  his  due. 

In  my  experience  with  their  infamous  deeds  in 
Belgium  and  France,  I  always  remember  two  occa- 
sions when  the  Huns  belied  their  name.  One  of 
them  came  within  range  of  my  own  experience. 
During  our  retirement  one  of  our  men  was  hit  in 
the  leg,  and  of  course  fell  down.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  take  him  with  us,  for  we  had  to  get  back 
quickly  in  order  to  make  conjunction  with  the 
other  troops  who  had  fallen  back.  Much  as  we 
hated  the  idea,  we  had  to  leave  him.  That,  un- 
fortunately, is  the  fate  of  many  of  the  wounded 
when  retiring.  He  was  taken  prisoner  and,  nat- 
urally, we  thought  he  had  either  been  bayoneted, 
or  was  on  his  way  to  Germany.  Judge  of  our  sur- 
prise, when  in  billets,  the  man  walked  into  our 
farmyard.  We  crowded  around,  simply  crazy  to 
hear  how  he  had  hoodwinked  the  Germans  and 
escaped.     We  marveled  when  he  told  his  story. 


1 84 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

He  had  been  taken  by  a  mob  of  Saxon  troops. 
He  expected  either  death  or  capture.  These  men, 
however,  dressed  his  wound;  inoculated  him 
against  the  possibility  of  lockjaw;  placed  him  in 
a  cellar  with  clean  straw  to  lie  on,  and  when  his 
slight  wound  permitted  him  to  walk,  they  allowed 
him  to  make  his  escape  to  his  own  lines. 

Once,  since  I  have  returned,  I  was  told  a  story 
by  one  of  the  Princess  Patricia  Regiment.  At  a 
certain  place  in  Belgium  a  dozen  or  so  of  the 
Pats  were  lying  behind  some  cover.  The  day 
was  a  quiet  one,  and  the  Pats  had  that  heavenly 
concoction  called  "  char  "  in  mind.  "  Char  "  is  tea 
to  those  unacquainted  with  English.  They  had 
the  wherewithal  for  the  making  of  the  tea  with 
the  exception  of  the  water.  Of  course  there  was 
enough  lying  around  to  float  a  boat,  but  anyone 
who  has  smelt  that  "  aqua  vitae  "  would  not  dream 
of  using  it  for  tea.  When  a  seasoned  soldier  will 
not  use  it,  it  is  pretty  bad. 

A  little  distance  from  where  they  were  lying 
was  a  pump  from  which  good  water  could  be  ob- 
tained, but  covering  the  pump  and  the  approach 


FIGHTING  FOR  OUR  LIVES  185 

to  the  pump  was  a  sniper.  However,  a  hot  drink 
is  worth  risking  something  for  and  a  man  started 
out  to  try  and  bring  back  some  water.  Crack! 
down  he  went.  The  man  was  badly  hit  but  not 
killed,  and  his  chum  determined  to  try  and  get 
him  in.  He  went  out,  expecting  to  be  hit  every 
second,  but  nothing  happened  and  he  carried  his 
stricken  chum  in.  Now  Fritzie  has  a  habit  of  fir- 
ing on  anything  that  moves,  and  the  Pats  won- 
dered. At  last,  another  man,  feeling  sure  that 
the  sniper  had  either  retired  for  the  day,  or  had 
gone  to  lunch,  set  forth  to  fetch  the  water.  Again 
that  ominous  crack,  and  again  a  prone  figure. 
Again  a  chum  sallies  out  to  at  least  try  and  save 
his  stricken  comrade,  if  he  is  not  shot  dead.  He 
returns  with  his  chum  unhurt.  This  happened  a 
third  time,  and  then  it  dawned  on  the  Pats  that  a 
soldier  who  was  a  gentleman  and  a  sportsman  was 
sniping  in  the  German  lines. 

So  long  as  the  British  soldier  was  on  his  feet, 
and  an  active  enemy,  the  sniper  was  only  too 
pleased  to  knock  him  over,  but  as  soon  as  the  foe 
was  a  stricken,  wounded  man,  he  was  entitled  to 


1 86 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

everyone's  consideration,  and  for  his  part  he  was 
done  with  him. 

I,  for  one,  hope  that  that  German  is  back  in 
Germany  with  a  nice  cushy  wound,  and  getting 
the  best  that  the  Fatherland  can  give  him. 

Hard  as  we  tried,  their  reinforcements  kept  pil- 
ing in,  and  finally  they  effected  an  entrance  at  one 
end  of  our  trench,  so  to  keep  in  touch  with  our 
left,  we  fell  back  slowly  to  an  old  evil-smelling 
trench,  knee  deep  with  the  foulest  water  I  have 
ever  seen.  If  we  had  had  but  two  batteries  of 
artillery  we  could  have  held  them,  even  with  their 
gas.  However,  to  hope  to  keep  them  back  with  in- 
fantry alone,  against  their  gas  and  murderous  ar- 
tillery fire,  was  something  for  the  Canadians  to 
figure  out.  As  it  was,  they  only  succeeded  in 
forcing  us  back  for  about  a  mile. 

The  whole  Canadian  Division  had  been  sur- 
rounded, but  with  the  timely  arrival  of  the  Tom- 
mies had  fought  its  way  out  again.  In  the  early 
stages  of  the  battle,  so  close  had  it  been  that  one 
battery  of  artillery  had  reversed  their  guns  and 
fired  point-blank,  at  about  three  hundred  yards, 


FIGHTING  FOR  OUR  LIVES  187 

into  the  mob  of  Germans.  The  gunners  were  all 
killed  or  taken  prisoners,  but  the  price  they  made 
Fritz  pay  was  dear  indeed.  After  this  our  artil- 
lery was  obliged  to  retire  for  some  short  distance 
back,  but  there  the  line  held. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

THE    BOCHES    BALKED 

AFTER  we  had  rested  somewhat  in  the  spot 
to  which  we  had  retired,  the  corporal,  of 
whom  I  spoke  before,  asked  for  someone  to  go 
with  him  to  try  and  find  out  what  Fritz  was  up 
to.  I  felt  I  would  be  all  right  with  him,  and  I 
almost  preferred  instant  death  to  the  odor  of  that 
foul  water-hole,  so  I  went  along  with  him. 

To  my  horror  the  first  thing  he  did  when  we 
got  fairly  out  was  to  strike  a  match  and  light  his 
pipe.    Light  lightning  I  jumped  from  his  side. 
"My  God!  Corporal,  what  are  you  doing*?" 
"What's  the  excitement?"  he  asked,   puffing 
calmly. 

"You'll  get  sniped  as  sure  as  fate." 
Then  it  was  he  showed  the  typical  fatalism  of 
the  soldier. 

"Son,  if  I'm  going  to  get  hit,  I'll  get  it;  but  if 

[188] 


THE  BOCHES  BALKED  189 

it's  not  my  turn,  I  wouldn't  get  it  if  I  lit  a  bloom- 
in'  bonfire." 

"If  you  take  unnecessary  chances  you'll  get  it." 

"Don't  be  afraid,  lad,  I'm  not  throwing  my 
life  away.  You  are  as  safe  with  me  as  you  would 
be  up  in  the  trench." 

We  soon  ran  on  to  their  listening  patrol,  but  my 
corporal  had  not  been  in  three  campaigns  for 
nothing.  He  took  me,  to  my  excited  imagination, 
almost  to  their  very  feet.  They  were  talking  like 
mad  and  we  had  evidently  been  seen  a  few  min- 
utes before,  for  they  rushed  to  the  spot  we  had 
occupied  just  before  they  got  there.  We  circled 
about  for  a  few  hours  and  finally  decided  that 
Fritz  had  dug  in  for  the  night. 

Toward  daylight,  an  order  came  for  all  Cana- 
dians who  had  stayed  behind  to  go  down  to  the 
rear,  as  the  Canadians  had  been  relieved.  How 
tired  we  all  were;  I  did  not  care  if  I  lived  or  died. 
We  ran  on  isolated  bunches  of  Germans,  with 
some  of  whom  we  exchanged  a  few  shots. 

At  last  we  emerged  on  the  road,  and,  to  my 
dying  day,  I  shall  never  forget  the  sights  that  met 


190  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

our  eyes.  Everywhere  were  shell  craters,  both 
on  the  road  and  on  each  side  of  us.  In  every 
shrine,  where  the  Belgians  placed  their  crucifixes, 
men  in  agony  from  the  gas  had  crawled  and  died 
there;  dead  bodies,  dead  horses,  wrecked  ambu- 
lance cars,  gun  limbers,  ammunition  limbers,  and 
in  one  place  were  six  of  the  very  finest  horses  I 
have  ever  seen,  with  their  drivers,  dead.  Villages, 
where  the  people  had  been  living  when  we  went 
up,  were  now  utterly  desolate;  everything  a  smol- 
dering mass  of  ruins,  such  had  been  the  fury  of 
that  shell  fire.  And  it  was  still  going  on,  shells 
screaming  over  us  or  bursting  close  by. 

At  one  place  the  Boches  had  pushed  so  far  for- 
ward that  they  were  only  a  short  distance  from  the 
road  and  they  opened  up  on  us,  but  only  succeeded 
in  wounding  a  few.  Finally  we  came  down  to  an 
open  space  and  found  the  brigade  busily  cooking 
breakfast.  "Hurrah,"  thought  I,  "grub  and  a 
sleep."  Hastily  I  began  to  look  around  for  some- 
thing to  eat,  but  alas,  the  order  came  to  be  ready  to 
advance  again.  I  was  utterly  weary,  but  it 
couldn't  be  helped. 


THE  BOCHES  BALKED 191 

Finding  my  own  crowd,  who  had  been  fortu- 
nate enough  to  get  in  a  few  hours'  sleep  and  were 
correspondingly  cheerful,  I  fell  in,  and  in  skir- 
mishing order  we  began  the  advance. 

Suddenly  at  our  backs  came  an  ear-splitting  re- 
port, and  of  all  the  music  I  ever  heard  that  was  the 
sweetest.  It  was  our  own  heavy  artillery  reply- 
ing to  the  Germans.  We  skirmished  on  in  long 
lines  until  the  order  came  to  "  Dig  in."  I  was  so 
hungry  and  tired  that  I  absolutely  did  not  care 
whether  I  got  hit  or  not.  Happening  to  notice 
my  condition,  Sergeant  Campbell  came  up  to  me : 

"What  the  hell  is  wrong  with  you4?"  said  he. 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  Sergeant,  I'm 
hungry,  thirsty,  and  tired  out.  You  people  have 
had  an  hour  or  so's  rest;  I've  had  none.  I'm  dead 
beat  and  if  I  get  it,  so  much  the  better." 

I  spoke  the  absolute  truth,  because  that  was  the 
one  time  in  my  life  I  honestly  wanted  to  die. 

"You  get  busy  and  dig  in;  we  need  you;  not 
that  you're  worth  much  anyway,  but  you're  the 
only  trained  runner  we've  got  around." 

"Not  till  I  get  something  to  eat,"  I  answered, 


192 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

deliberately  defying  him.  Again  that  wonderful 
understanding  spirit  of  dear  old  Ken  showed 
forth.  Instead  of  telling  me  the  punishment  that 
would  follow  my  insubordination,  he  said,  "All 
right,  son,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

I  lay  exhausted  on  the  ground  and  in  a  few 
minutes,  to  my  great  happiness,  the  sergeant  re- 
turned, bringing  a  dirty  old  bone,  but  covered  with 
meat.  It  was  aged,  and  the  flies  played  upon  it, 
but  to  my  mind  and  memory  no  meat  ever  tasted 
so  sweet.  I  sunk  my  teeth  in  it  and  the  very  first 
bite  gave  me  a  new  inspiration  to  live. 

Again  we  advanced,  but  I  clung  to  my  bone, 
and  as  soon  as  we  halted  to  dig  in  again,  I  buried 
my  face  up  to  the  ears  in  the  meat.  As  soon  as  I 
was  full  I  carefully  slipped  the  bone  in  my  belt 
in  order  to  be  prepared  for  the  next  hunger- 
pinch.  I  then  felt  a  very  earnest  desire  to  live,  and 
when  the  next  halt  came  and  the  shells  were  com- 
ing over  in  a  never-ending  stream,  I  had  an  intense 
desire  to  explore  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  On 
feeling  for  my  entrenching  tool,  to  my  dismay,  I 
found  it  gone.     Grabbing  my  bayonet  from  the 


THE  BOCHES  BALKED 193 

scabbard  I  went  to  work,  and  the  way  I  burrowed 
with  my  hands  on  that  bayonet  was  a  caution.  I 
would  not  have  taken  a  back  seat  to  a  prairie 
badger. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

FUN  AND  FURY 

WE  lay  here  for  awhile,  every  now  and  then 
some  poor  boy  going  over,  although  we 
were  fairly  safe  from  shrapnel  if  we  closely 
hugged  our  holes.  But  we  had  no  protection 
whatever  from  their  high  explosive  shells;  these 
hit  the  ground,  tearing  huge  holes,  and  woe  to 
those  who  were  near.  The  shell  fire  was  terrific, 
but  our  own  guns  were  roaring  back  magnificently. 
To  show  how  men  will  rise  to  the  height  of 
dare-devil  coolness,  I  must  tell  of  the  men  who 
were  supplying  our  guns  with  ammunition.  Six 
horses  on  a  limber,  with  three  drivers,  and  two 
carriers  on  the  limbers,  would  trot  steadily  to 
the  bomb-proof  shelter  where  the  ammunition  was 
kept,  load  up,  and  still  at  the  steady  trot  return 
to  the  guns.  All  the  time  heavy  shrapnel  was 
bursting  overhead,  and  the  awful  crack  of  this 
[194] 


FUN  AND  FURY 195 

shell  is  enough  to  break  the  strongest  nerve.  A 
huge  shell  burst  right  overhead,  a  few  yards  in 
front  of  us,  killing  some  of  the  gun  crew,  but  with- 
out a  falter,  except  to  remove  their  dead  comrades, 
the  rest  went  on  steadily  working  their  guns. 

Again  we  moved  forward,  and  so  furious  had 
become  the  artillery  duel,  that  we  could  only  ad- 
vance in  small  parties.  A  chum  of  ours  died  here. 
We  were  lying  down  for  a  time  behind  a  hedge 
and  one  of  the  heavy  shrapnel  shells  burst  a  little 
to  the  front  of  us,  the  forward  sweep  of  the 
shrapnel  landing  the  bullets  right  among  us. 
When  a  shrapnel  shell  bursts  the  bullets  sweep 
forward  and  obliquely  to  the  ground,  having  a 
forward  range  of  three  hundred  yards  and  a  lat- 
eral zone  of  fifty  yards.  The  three  hundred  odd 
bullets  of  the  German  shell  fly  like  a  fan.  It  will 
be  seen  that  a  shell  may  burst  right  over  your  head 
without  injuring  anyone,  but  the  men  three  hun- 
dred yards  or  so  to  your  rear  are  hit. 

The  report  of  the  explosion  stunned  us  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  this  chum  of  ours,  as  soon  as  we  be- 
gan to  feel  that  we  were  still  alive,  got  to  his  feet 


196 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

and  said,  "  Boys,  I'm  hit."  "  Where  ^  "  we  asked. 
"Through  the  head,  I  think,"  said  poor  Dick,  and 
then  dropped  dead.  On  examining  his  body  we 
found  that  a  ball  had  passed  right  through  his 
heart. 

It  was  now  that  the  British  troops  again  began 
to  deploy  over  the  plains  toward  the  trenches. 
Line  after  line,  for  hour  after  hour,  they  pressed 
steadily  on.  It  was  a  sight,  I  can  tell  you,  a  les- 
son in  steadiness  and  coolness.  Again  we  dug  in 
and  were  ordered  to  stay  and  be  ready  to  support 
the  attack  the  British  were  making.  However, 
we  were  not  needed  and  we  stayed  in  our  self- 
made  holes  for  four  days  under  that  hail  of  shells. 
The  casualties  were  very  heavy  and  our  own  little 
band  was  soon  minus  some  well-known  faces. 

One  amusing,  yet,  in  a  way,  tragic  thing  hap- 
pened here.  This  plain  of  which  I  am  speaking 
was  not  unlike  the  prairie.  All  hedges  were  gone 
except  a  few  here  and  there.  It  was  mostly  grass 
land  and  apparently  there  had  been  a  crop  taken 
off  there  the  autumn  before.  Scattered  over  this 
place  were  farmhouses,  which  of  course  were  in 


FUN  AND  FURY 197 

ruins,  but  a  bunch  of  cows  had  by  some  means 
managed  to  keep  alive  here,  and  this  same  herd 
were  quietly  grazing  away,  while  men  all  around 
them  were  burrowing  in  the  ground  for  their  lives. 
It  was  most  amusing  to  see  a  cow  calmly  lying 
down  and  chewing  away.  Poor  creatures,  they 
did  not  last  long.  How  they  managed  to  live  any 
time  was  marvelous,  considering  what  was  flying 
around  them. 

Next  night,  to  our  great  joy,  a  tea  ration  was 
brought  up,  but  our  hopes  were  dashed  to  the 
ground  by  the  O.  C's.  forbidding  any  fires  to  be 
lighted.  Of  course,  there  were  blazing  stacks  and 
buildings  everywhere,  but  not  in  our  vicinity. 
Water  was  plentiful  enough,  but  we  were  obliged 
to  go  some  distance  for  drinkable  water.  Here 
we  were,  with  tea,  sugar  and  water,  yet  unable  to 
make  a  dixie  of  tea,  and  it  must  be  remembered 
that  we  had  had  neither  hot  food  nor  a  hot  drink 
for  twelve  days. 

Fritz,  however,  very  obligingly  solved  our  dif- 
ficulty. We  were  lying  close  to  a  thatched  barn, 
which,  by  another  of  those  miraculous,  unexplain- 


198 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

able  things,  had  not  yet  been  shelled.  However, 
Fritzie  must  have  known  our  trouble,  for  bang! 
bang!  and  a  couple  of  "hissing  Jennies"  hit  the 
barn  plump,  and  in  an  instant  that  barn  was 
ablaze.  It  soon  burned  to  the  ground  and,  utterly 
reckless  of  shell  fire  or  machine  guns,  we  crowded 
round  the  hot  embers  and  brewed  our  tea.  The 
officers  raged  at  us  for  a  bunch  of  suicidal  fools, 
as  exposing  ourselves  with  a  light  background  was 
liable  to  draw  half  of  the  Boche  artillery  on  us. 
The  Old  Man  himself  saw  us  crowding  round 
the  embers  —  a  splendid  mark  on  the  top  of  that 
hill.  Over  he  rushed,  his  face  fairly  blazing  with 
rage.  "Get  into  your  holes,  you  suicidal  fools," 
he  roared.  But,  colonel  as  he  was,  some  one  told 
him  where  he  might  go.  We  all  feared  for  the 
result  of  this  remark,  as  it  was  no  less  than  delib- 
erate insubordination  punishable  with  a  very 
heavy  penalty.  If  it  had  been  a  German  private 
soldier  who  had  answered  his  commanding  officer 
in  such  fashion,  he  would  not  have  had  time  to 
say  his  prayers. 

But  I  suppose  the  Colonel  had  a  heart  some- 


FUN  AND  FURY 199 

where  under  his  belt  and  he  passed  it  up.  It 
probably  brought  home  to  him  what  his  men  had 
been  through.  So  we  got  our  tea,  "  and  of  all  the 
drinks  I've  drunk"  my  gratitude  to  Fritz  far 
exceeded  Kipling's  Tommy  to  Gunga  Din. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

YSER 

WHEN  relieved  from  this  hillside  we  once 
more  marched  through  Ypres,  had  two 
days'  rest  in  the  adjoining  fields,  and  were  then 
sent  to  guard  the  Yser  Canal. 

Our  flanks  touched  the  very  city  itself  and 
during  the  day  we  could  see  houses  falling  and 
the  city  being  systematically  pounded  to  dust. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  day  that  Fritz  turned  his 
attention  to  the  canal  bank.  Most  of  the  bat- 
talion were  in  dugouts  they  had  made  themselves, 
just  on  the  sloping  side  of  an  orchard;  the  orchard 
was  the  top  of  a  bank;  on  one  side  was  the  Yser 
River  and  on  the  other  side  was  a  brook.  It  will 
be  seen  that  we  were  dug  in  between  two  streams, 
with  the  brook  flowing  about  forty  feet  below  us, 
and  we  stationed  on  the  side  of  the  bank  in  our 
holes  about  three  quarters  of  the  way  up  from  the 

bottom. 

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YSER 201 

Huge  shells  began  to  burst  with  deafening 
noise  in  the  field  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook, 
while  a  few  dropped  right  in  among  us,  causing 
many  casualties,  and  such  was  the  fury  of  the 
bombardment  that  the  ground  rolled  and  heaved 
as  though  being  shaken  with  a  quake. 

Trembling  with  terror  I  hugged  the  bottom  of 
my  dugout,  expecting  every  moment  to  be  either 
buried  or  thrown  up  in  the  air.  However,  it  was 
not  to  be.  But,  suddenly,  the  ground  beneath  me 
began  to  slide,  and  for  what  seemed  an  age  I  felt 
myself  riding  on  the  top  of  a  solid  mass  of  earth. 
What  had  happened  was  this,  the  whole  bank 
had  slid  away  in  the  direction  of  the  brook,  and, 
incredible  as  it  may  seem,  the  brook  afterwards 
flowed  some  twenty  yards  farther  away  than  it 
had  done  previously. 

Still  nothing  could  depress  for  long  the  spirit 
of  the  Fifth  and  soon  the  boys  were  taking  note 
of  their  surroundings.  Presently  a  bunch  of 
French  soldiers  passed  along  by  us  with  two  huge 
panniers  loaded  with  bottles  full  of  the  best 
vintage  in  the  neighborhood ;  they  had  gotten  them 


202  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

in  the  city.  Instantly  the  boys  pricked  up  their 
ears  and  longing  glances  were  cast  toward  the 
stricken  town.  In  a  short  time  the  more  adven- 
turous spirits  had  found  their  way  into  the  city 
and  returned  laden  with  all  kinds  of  good  food 
and  the  same  refreshing  liquid  that  the  Frenchies 
carried. 

Libby,  who  was  ever  a  leader  in  any  reckless 
enterprise,  accompanied  by  Fitzpatrick,  made 
their  way  into  Ypres  and  came  back  with  stores  of 
good  things  to  eat  and  drink  and  bursting  stories 
of  the  quantity  of  stuff  lying  around.  "If  we 
only  had  a  motor  truck  we  could  have  filled  it," 
they  said. 

Next  day  I  went  with  a  party.  It  was  no  small 
feat  to  get  away  from  the  battalion  without  being 
noticed,  but  we  managed  it  and  Libby  led  the 
way  to  the  barracks  occupied  formerly  by  the 
Belgians,  and  used  during  the  winter  of  1914-15 
as  headquarters  for  the  British  divisions  who  were 
holding  the  salient. 

A  Belgian  sentry  at  the  battered  gates  allowed 
us  to  go  in  and  we  mounted  the  stairs  of  the  bar- 


2        V 


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YSER 203 

racks,  entering  a  long  room  that  apparently  had 
been  the  sleeping  quarters  of  the  Belgian  soldiers, 
for  pegs  and  numbers  and  framework  of  cots  were 
hanging  on  the  wall.  But  what  interested  us  most 
was  a  number  of  brand-new  Lee-Enfield  rifles 
packed  away  in  boxes;  we  possessed  ourselves 
with  one  each.  Then  we  turned  our  attention  to 
the  clothing  left  by  the  quartermasters  of  the 
British  Army.  We  quickly  selected  underwear, 
a  good  jackknife  each,  and  anything  else  to  which 
we  took  a  fancy.  The  underwear  was  of  the  very 
finest  quality,  being  sent  out  by  the  ladies  in 
England  to  the  young  subalterns.  Canned  fruit, 
rations  of  tea,  chocolate  —  everything  heart  could 
desire  was  there  in  abundance.  Our  chief  trouble 
was  in  determining  what  to  select  and  what  to 
leave. 

When  we  sallied  out  the  difficulty  was  to  dodge 
the  pickets  who  had  been  placed  in  the  town  to 
prevent  looting.  Now  we  had  been  unquestion- 
ably looting,  but  it  was  excusable  in  that  we  took 
nothing  that  belonged  to  the  civil  population; 
still  it  properly  came  under  the  head  of  looting 


204 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

and  the  pickets  would  have  shot  us  on  sight  had 
they  caught  us  with  our  spoils.  Therefore,  it  was 
one  thing  to  get  it,  but  quite  another  thing  to 
transport  it  in  safety  to  our  dugout. 

We  separated  into  twos,  Libby  and  Fitzpatrick 
with  the  rifles  taking  one  route,  and  a  boy  named 
Powell  and  myself  with  the  rest  of  the  loot, 
taking  another.  All  went  well  with  us  until 
we  ran  into  the  arms  of  a  Tommy,  alas,  one 
of  the  pickets.  He  was  a  typical  John  Bull  and 
he  was  there  to  prevent  just  such  things  as  we  had 
been  doing.    We  tried  bluff  — 

"Good-day,  chum." 

"What  are  you  doing  without  your  arms  in 
here?"  he  asked. 

Here  was  a  poser,  for  to  be  without  arms  in 
the  danger  zone  is  a  terrible  crime.  Powell  tried 
to  rise  to  the  occasion  by  explaining  that  we  had 
been  sent  with  messages  and  had  not  far  to  go. 

"What  have  you  got  in  those  valises?" 

Our  hearts  sank  into  our  boots.  Our  answer 
did  not  satisfy  him  in  the  least.  Still  holding  his 
rifle  at  the  "ready"  — 


YSER 205 

"Right-about  face!  an'  don't  try  any  bloomin' 
funny  business  or  yer  dead.     Quick  march." 

My  heart  sank  into  my  boots  and  I  gave  up  in 
despair,  for  escape  seemed  impossible.  And  then 
followed  as  fine  a  bit  of  team  work  as  I  have  ever 
witnessed  in  my  life.  The  Tommy  not  only  had 
his  bayonet  fixed,  but  in  his  rifle  we  knew  there 
were  at  least  five  rounds  of  live  ammunition.  But 
the  thought  of  quietly  giving  up  had  not  entered 
Powell's  head.  Just  as  we  were  passing  a  huge 
crater  hole,  he  stumbled  over  and  fell  right  at  our 
captor's  feet  and  frantically  grabbed  them.  My 
own  wits,  I  am  glad  to  say,  acted  like  lightning 
and  I  grabbed  him  round  the  neck  and  he  toppled 
over.  Quicker  than  it  takes  to  tell,  we  rolled  him 
to  the  edge  of  the  crater  hole  and  gave  him  a  vig- 
orous, though  not  too  violent  a  push  over,  and 
down  he  rolled  to  the  bottom.  I  can  still  see  the 
smoke  of  his  ascending  remarks. 

Then  we  ran  for  dear  life.  Luck  was  with  us 
and  we  landed  safely  in  our  dugouts,  loot  and  all. 
We  hurriedly  unstrapped  our  valises  from  our 
shoulders  and  disposed  of  our  stuff  in  a  concealed 


206  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

hole,  because  we  were  afraid,  knowing  the  charac- 
ter of  the  British  soldier,  that  he  would  find  out 
where  we  belonged. 

And  sure  enough,  before  long,  he  heaves  on 
the  horizon.  Now  was  exemplified  the  old  saw, 
"Money  talks."  Before  he  could  reach  the  head- 
quarters' dugout,  Powell  darted  across  and  inter- 
cepted him.     I  followed. 

"Say,  chum,"  said  Powell  in  broken-hearted 
tones,  "you  ain't  going  to  split  on  us,  are  you?" 

"Horders  is  horders,  an'  you  blokes  played  me 
a  damned  nasty  trick." 

"Have  you  any  mone)r,  chum?"  asked  Powell. 

"No." 

Powell  took  a  five-franc  bill  out  of  his  pocket 
and  I  followed  suit.  Lucky  we  were  to  have  it 
as  we  were  generally  as  destitute  as  he.  Ten 
francs  is  wealth  untold  to  a  soldier  on  the  West- 
ern Front.  While  Tommy's  eyes  glinted,  he  hesi- 
tated. 

"Come  on,  chum,"  says  I,  "you  know  you 
would  have  done  the  same  if  you  had  been  up  the 
line  like  we  have  for  the  last  fifteen  days  or  so, 


YSER  207 

and  wanted  some  good  grub  and  a  change  of 
clothes." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  know  that  nobody  saw  me 
with  you  two  blokes'?  " 

"Nobody  saw  us,"  Powell  hastily  assured  him. 

"Well,  besides,  you  bunged  me  into  that  'ole, 
an'  yer  were  none  too  gentle  over  it  neither." 

Desperate  and  thinking  the  game  was  about 
up,  I  ventured, 

"  Don't  you  think  that  was  a  pretty  neat  trick, 
partner,  all  the  same?" 

The  humor  of  it  all  came  to  our  rescue,  for  a 
slow  smile  spread  over  his  English  mug. 

"P'raps  yer  right,"  says  he;  "give  me  yer  ten 
francs  an'  we'll  call  it  square.  But,  remember, 
if  I  gets  'auled  hover  the  coals,  I'll  'ave  to  come 
for  yer  then." 

He  left  with  the  last  of  our  money,  but  leav- 
ing us  a  huge  pile  of  comfort,  and  we  heard 
nothing  more  of  the  matter. 

One  afternoon  I  sat  reading  a  book  and  hap- 
pening to  glance  up  I  beheld  a  strange  sight. 
Walking,  or  I  should  say  limping  between  two 


208  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

stalwart  French  infantrymen  was  a  cripple.  His 
left  arm  was  doubled  up  at  the  elbow ;  later  on  I 
discovered  it  was  withered.  One  leg  was  fully 
six  inches  shorter  than  the  other  and,  to  my  aston- 
ishment, the  Frenchmen  were  treating  him  none 
too  kindly.  They  were  not  abusing  him,  as  the 
natural  courtesy  of  every  Frenchman  will  not  per- 
mit him  to  be  impolite  even  to  the  hated  Boches, 
but  I  could  see  that  they  would  have  dearly  loved 
to  have  thrown  their  crippled  prisoner  down  the 
steep  banks  of  the  canal.  Being  a  runner,  I  was 
more  or  less  privileged  and  my  curiosity  being 
aroused  I  determined  to  follow  the  party.  They 
stopped  at  the  headquarters'  dugout  and  pushed 
their  prisoner  in.  Walworth,  in  the  absence  of 
an  interpreter,  always  officiated  when  difficulties 
of  language  cropped  out.  He  was  sent  for.  I 
listened  to  the  Frenchmen's  story.  It  appears 
these  Frenchmen  noticed,  when  coming  down  the 
main  street  of  Ypres,  that  one  of  the  houses  showed 
very  little  signs  of  hard  usage.  After  such  a  bom- 
bardment, this  struck  them  as  being  suspicious, 
and  knowing  the  cunning  of  the  Hun  only  too 


YSER  209 

well,  they  determined  to  search  the  house. 
Nothing  did  they  find,  but  they  were  still  dis- 
satisfied. Quite  by  accident  they  hit  on  a  door 
leading  to  a  cellar  underneath  the  house.  Installed 
in  this  cellar  was  a  complete  telephone  system,  and 
our  cripple  and  another  man  were  operating  it. 
The  cripple's  accomplice  was  promptly  bayoneted 
by  the  irate  Frenchmen,  but  they  decided  to  take 
the  other  man  along  to  the  nearest  headquarters, 
which  happened  to  be  ours.  Whether  or  not  these 
men  were  spies  I  cannot  tell,  but  the  evidence 
would  point  that  way.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
cripple  was  sent  away  to  brigade  headquarters  and 
I  am  absolutely  in  the  dark  as  to  his  ultimate 
fortune. 

It  was  not  only  my  immediate  chums  who  were 
refitting  themselves  and  feeding  themselves  in 
the  "hospitable"  city  of  Ypres;  every  soldier  who 
could  do  so  partook  of  its  bounty. 

Many  and  varied  were  the  souvenirs  that  the 
boys  brought  back  with  them.  To  their  credit  be 
it  said  that  they  never  took  a  thing  that  had 
belonged  to  any  of  the  inhabitants,  but  the  army 


2io HOLDING  THE  LINE 

was  a  different  and  legitimate  prey.  There  was 
one  exception,  however,  and  a  bunch  of  Number 
Seven  Platoon  were  the  proud  purloiners  of  a 
brand-new  gramophone.  They  had  consumed  a 
little  wine  and  were  correspondingly  gay.  Now, 
my  Holy  Rollers  I  suppose  we  shall  have  you  hold- 
ing up  your  hands  in  horror  at  those  awful  sol- 
diers. Don't  worry  your  precious  souls;  those 
boys  were  not  allowed  to  get  drunk.  If  they  did 
disobey  orders,  we  did  our  best  to  shield  them  and 
take  over  their  duties  until  they  were  themselves 
again.  It  was  very  rare  that  they  ever  trans- 
gressed in  this  regard. 

Soon  the  gramophone  was  playing  merrily 
away  and  we  poured  from  our  holes  like  so  many 
rabbits  to  listen.  Oh,  the  power  of  music !  War 
may  seem  romantic  in  a  certain  sense  to  those  at 
a  distance,  but  to  those  actually  engaged  in  it,  it 
is  a  sordid  monotonous  business.  Home,  parents 
and  loved  ones  were  brought  nearer  to  us  than 
before  and  memories  of  an  existence  that  seemed 
to  have  passed  and  gone  from  us  long  ago  filled 
my  very  being. 


YSER 211 

Under  the  influence  of  the  music  the  boys  evi- 
dently forgot  there  was  a  war,  for  one  by  one  we 
crept  from  our  dugouts  and  gathered  around  the 
charm  box.  Fritz,  however,  had  not  forgotten 
about  the  war  at  all  and  he  soon  reminded  us  that 
we  were  there  for  more  serious  business  than  day- 
dreaming under  the  influence  of  a  gramophone. 
A  salvo  of  five  whiz  bangs  readily  brought  us 
down  to  earth  and  into  earth  we  scuttled  like  a 
bunch  of  human  ground  hogs ;  I  think  I  made  the 
twenty-yard  space  to  my  hole  in  one  leap;  at  least 
it  seemed  like  a  single  jump.  No  one  was  hit,  but 
we  hugged  our  holes  knowing  that  the  dose  would 
be  repeated. 

I  couldn't  help  but  laugh  when  I  heard  the  voice 
of  one  of  the  boys  raised  in  anger  to  his  chum. 
"Didn't  you  bring  in  the  gramophone?"  "Do 
you  think  I  was  going  to  wait  for  that?"  replied 
the  chum.  "Well,  we  wouldn't  miss  you,"  was 
the  rejoinder,  "  but  if  that  music  box  gets  smashed, 
what  shall  we  do?" 

The  awful  possibility  of  such  a  contingency 
must  have  instantly  aroused  the  negligent  one  to 


212 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

a  sense  of  the  impending  danger,  for  darting  from 
his  hole  he  recovered  the  precious  instrument  and 
made  a  return  trip  for  the  records. 

For  the  few  days  that  we  were  sunken  in  those 
miserable  holes,  which  were  the  merest  apologies 
for  dugouts  on  the  canal,  we  lightened  the  tedium 
of  the  many  hours  of  weary  waiting  by  the  magic 
of  that  wonderful  box. 

The  initiative  of  our  mob  was  never  better 
shown  than  in  the  following  amusing  happening. 
At  night  those  of  us  who  were  not  engaged  in 
fatigues  were  told  off  to  patrol  the  canal  banks. 
Day  and  night  a  never-ending  stream  of  French 
soldiers  would  pour  from  the  city  carrying  with 
them  loads  of  wine,  etc.  Walworth,  who  spoke 
French  like  a  native  and  who  was  the  possessor 
of  a  commanding  physique  and  air,  would  tem- 
porarily, at  the  wish  of  his  comrades,  take  charge 
of  the  patrol,  and  they  would  halt  a  party  of 
these  Frenchmen  and  tell  them  that  they  had 
orders  to  confiscate  all  loot,  and,  deeply  as  they 
regretted  it,  they  must  disgorge  their  wine, 
together  with  the  et  ceteras  they  had.     An  argu- 


YSER 213 

merit  would  follow  and  the  Frenchmen  would 
protest.  Then  Walworth,  with  an  air  of  con- 
descension, and  a  warning  to  the  Frenchmen  to 
say  nothing  about  this  breach  of  duty,  would 
agree  to  a  division  of  the  spoils.  Through  this 
handy  medium  we  were  saved  the  trouble  of  going 
after  it  ourselves.  Arriving  at  our  dugouts  in  the 
morning  we  would  find  a  bottle  or  two  of  very 
excellent  wine  which  had  been  thrown  into  our 
holes  by  the  Frenchies,  and  this  wine  heated  made 
a  very  acceptable  drink  in  the  chill  hours  of  the 
morning. 

Another  evidence  of  my  "yellow  streak"  took 
place  one  day  when  we  went  for  a  bath  in  the 
canal.  Every  man  who  knew  me  and  who  is 
alive  today  laughs  every  time  the  incident  is  men- 
tioned. My  chums  had  all  left  the  water,  but  I 
decided  to  swim  the  canal  once  more.  Just  then 
a  shell  landed  plumb  in  the  water,  most  uncom- 
fortably close.  The  sensation  I  experienced  was 
peculiar,  to  put  it  mildly.  I  spun  round  and 
round,  after  the  fashion  of  a  top,  and  fancied  that 
I  had  swallowed  half  the  water  of  the  canal. 


2i4  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Struggling  in  a  sort  of  frightened  frenzy  to  the 
shore,  and  without  waiting  to  put  on  my  clothes, 
I  dashed  like  a  flash  of  lightning  up  the  canal 
bank  into  the  orchard  and  hurled  myself  into  my 
hole,  where  I  sat  blubbering  and  sobbing  like  a 
scared  child. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  FUN  OF  IT 

ONE  incident,  although  nearly  tragic,  makes 
me  laugh  when  I  think  of  it.  In  our  pla- 
toon we  had  a  very  peculiar  character;  he  was 
(as  most  of  us  were)  an  Englishman,  but  I 
strongly  suspect  he  had  a  big  splash  of  Gypsy 
blood  in  his  veins.  In  spite  of  all  orders  to  the 
contrary,  this  boy  would  wander  away  and  be 
gone  for  hours,  and  would  return  laden  with  all 
kinds  of  souvenirs  —  helmets,  bayonets,  bottles  — 
almost  every  conceivable  thing,  and  one  day  he 
came  in  with  a  woman's  full  rig-out  of  clothes. 
Another  day  he  was  missing  and  came  back  at 
dusk  with  a  string  of  six  beautiful  fresh  fish.  Two 
of  us  accidentally  fell  on  the  place  where  these 
fish  abounded ;  it  was  a  kind  of  fish  preserve,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  fish  ponds  around  old  mansions 
in  England,  but  this  fellow,  I  believe,  found  them 
{215] 


216  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

by  instinct.  The  boys  who  knew  him  would  have 
wagered  their  shirts  or  their  last  nickels  that  if 
he  was  asked  he  would  fetch  Von  Kluck's  sword 
from  out  of  the  German  lines  in  broad  daylight. 
Of  course  around  Ypres  he  was  in  the  seventh 
heaven  and  at  the  back  of  his  dugout  such  a  bewil- 
dering mass  of  junk  was  never  collected  by  living 
man.  Old  clocks,  pieces  of  shrapnel,  sabots,  wine 
bottles,  needles  and  a  host  of  other  things,  includ- 
ing all  kinds  of  clothing.  Of  course  he  could 
not  take  them  with  him,  but  he  was  to  my  idea 
a  kind  of  left-handed  kleptomaniac. 

He  was  very  busy  ferreting  along  the  canal 
banks  and  in  the  orchard  one  afternoon,  when 
Fritz  sent  over  five  whiz  bangs  in  rapid  succession. 
With  a  yell  he  clapped  his  hand  to  that  part  of 
his  anatomy  where  a  kick  is  usually  administered, 
staggered  a  few  paces  and  fell.  The  apple  tree 
above  my  head  was  cut  to  pieces,  but  when  the 
banging  commenced  I  lost  no  time  investigating 
the  innermost  corner  of  my  dugout  and  escaped 
unhurt;  greased  lightning  was  a  slow  freight  to 
the  way  I  dived  for  safer  regions. 


THE  FUN  OF  IT 217 

After  waiting  a  few  seconds  to  let  the  splinters 
settle,  I  looked  for  Gypsy.  He  was  severely 
wounded,  but  not  of  a  too  serious  nature,  and  in 
spite  of  his  being  so  badly  hurt,  I  could  not  help 
saying,  "Tahn,  son,  that  got  you  right  in  the 
proper  place." 

The  story  went  up  and  down  the  line  many 
times  afterwards,  because  it  seemed  so  funny  for 
a  man  who  was  always  poking  his  nose  in  forbid- 
den places,  that  he  should  get  hit  just  where  a 
boy  would,  who  had  been  stealing  apples. 

Tahn  and  I  had  a  good  laugh  afterwards  at  the 
convalescent  camp  over  the  incident,  although  he 
said  that  at  the  time  he  couldn't  see  my  side  of 
the  joke  at  all. 

The  ignorance  of  some  of  the  native  peasantry 
of  this  part  of  France  concerning  Canada  was 
comically  exemplified.  The  officer  went  to  the 
house  of  an  old  lady  for  the  purpose  of  finding 
out  how  many  men  she  could  take  care  of,  and 
she  asked  him,  "  What  kind  of  men  are  you  going 
to  put  in  my  barn*?" 

"Canadians,  madam,"  he  replied. 


218 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur,  I  will  not  have  any  more 
black  men  here." 

The  officer  hastened  to  assure  her  that  our  skin 
was  as  white  as  hers  and  the  native  courtesy  of 
the  old  French  lady  was  trebled  to  make  amends 
for  her  mistake. 

This  same  officer  was  keenly  desirous  of  show- 
ing his  knowledge  of  French,  which  was  at  its  best 
quite  limited,  and  he  would  converse  always  in 
that  language  with  the  French  soldiers  or  people 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  He  inquired  at 
an  estaminet  in  his  best  French  for  some  red  pep- 
per, and  the  good  housewife,  who  happened  to 
speak  only  patois  handed  him  a  nicely  folded  little 
paper  package  of  cootie,  or  lice  killer.  Of  course 
he  had  to  endure  a  laugh.  But  his  enthusiasm  for 
displaying  French  was  most  marked  when  I  heard 
him  at  the  close  of  a  short  talk  with  a  French  sol- 
dier, who  happened  to  be  equally  desirous  of 
displaying  his  knowledge  of  English.  When  they 
were  parting,  our  quartermaster  shook  his  hand 
and  said,   "Oh,   reservoir." 

"Tanks,"   replied  Frenchy. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

LEAVING  YSER 

BEFORE  we  left  the  canal  we  had  a  really 
miraculous  escape  —  I  and  the  other  mem- 
bers of  my  platoon.  We  were  detailed  on  ration 
party  and  while  waiting  for  our  loads  we  strag- 
gled up  the  road,  the  boys  being  only  a  few  yards 
apart  from  one  another.  Suddenly  we  heard  the 
ever-increasing  roar  of  a  huge  howitzer  shell  com- 
ing straight  at  us.  Throwing  ourselves  flat  we 
waited  for  what  seemed  an  hour,  although  in  real- 
ity only  a  second,  and  with  a  shrieking  roar,  like 
the  crack  of  doom,  it  landed  in  our  midst.  I  re- 
member going  up,  but  I  never  remembered  coming 
down.  When  I  came  to  my  senses  some  sixteen 
hours  later  I  was  told  what  happened  after  the  ar- 
rival of  the  German  souvenir.  Not  one  of  our  boys 
had   been  killed,   nor   even   wounded,    although 

several  were  sent  home  suffering  from  shell-shock, 
[219] 


220  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

and  very  bad  cases  too.  We  had  all  been  stunned 
and  consequently  put  out  of  action  for  that  night. 

A  second  ration  party  took  our  place  and  the 
same  thing  was  repeated,  but  this  time  with  ter- 
rible results;  forty-eight  of  our  boys  became 
casualties  —  killed,  wounded  or  shocked. 

The  wonder  is  that  any  of  us  stayed  on  duty 
at  all,  and  in  my  particular  case  the  result  was  to 
make  me  a  mass  of  irritated  nerves,  while  my 
hands  and  limbs  twitched  for  days.  I  believe  if 
the  M.  O.  had  seen  me  I  would  have  been  sent  for 
at  least  a  week's  rest,  but  I  stayed  it  out. 

It  was  midnight  and  as  hot  as  Hades  when  we 
started  from  the  banks  of  the  Yser.  Now  we  had 
been  some  twenty-two  days  constantly  in  action. 
I  have  not  spoken  of  the  numberless  times  we  stood 
to,  to  be  launched  into  the  line  to  help  our  terribly 
hard-pressed  French  and  British  comrades.  Every 
time  a  tornado  of  German  artillery  fire  would 
open  up,  we  would  stand  ready  to  advance  across 
open  ground  to  the  front  line.  Also,  in  spite  of 
our  fun  on  the  Yser's  banks,  we  were  often  sub- 
jected to  terrific  bombardments  from  the  Boche 


LEAVING  YSER 22i_ 

heavies.  In  short,  our  casualties  on  the  Yser  were 
fearfully  many. 

Judge  then  of  our  condition  for  a  twenty-five 
mile  march.  The  beginning  of  our  march  com- 
menced by  doubling  us  out  between  batteries  of 
roaring  seventy-fives  and  sixty-pounders.  The 
awful  din  was  the  finishing  touch  and  our  nerves 
went  snap.  At  last  we  were  clear  and  we  settled 
down  to  a  steady  hike.  The  Warwickshire  Regi- 
ment, which  took  our  place  on  the  banks  of  the 
canal,  was  there  about  twenty  minutes  when  a 
fearful  bombardment  burst  upon  it.  Poor 
gallant  Midland  lads;  God  rest  you  where  you 
lie !  Next  morning  a  few  survivors  still  hung  to 
their  positions,  but,  alas,  the  gallant  Warwicks 
were  almost  decimated. 

Who  was  it  first  published  the  scurrilous  lie 
that  the  British  sacrifice  their  Colonial  troops  and 
save  their  own*?  No  fouler  slur  on  those  quiet 
tenacious  warriors  of  the  Old  Land  was  ever  cast. 
If  Tommy  Atkins  fails  in  taking  or  holding  a 
position,  no  other  nation  on  God's  earth  can  take 
it  or  hold  it. 


222  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

On,  on,  we  tramped !  God !  Would  we  never 
halt?  One  after  the  other,  exhausted  men  would 
fall  and  sleep,  sleep,  sleep.  On  and  ever  on  till  legs 
moved  mechanically,  all  sensation  of  movement 
having  left  them.  Men  dozed  as  they  walked, 
fell  as  they  dozed,  lay  where  they  fell. 

True  to  my  mighty  vow  that  I  would  never 
fall  out  on  a  march,  I  lurched  on,  but,  God !  the 
effort.  At  last,  as  day  was  breaking,  they  took  us 
into  a  field,  and  a  hot  drink  of  tea,  some  food  and 
a  rest  of  one  hour  revived  us  somewhat. 

I  noticed  that  one  of  the  officers  was  carrying  a 
puppy  in  his  arms.  It  was  only  a  few  days  old 
and  I  marveled  at  his  wonderful  heart  in  forget- 
ting his  own  troubles  and  caring  for  the  poor  little 
helpless  creature.  Our  curiosity  was  aroused  and 
we  asked  him,  "Why  the  pup?" 

"Boys,"  said  he,  "that  pup  is  worth  a  fortune. 
It  was  born  at  the  time  of  the  very  heat  of  the 
bombardment."  I  never  knew  what  eventually 
became  of  the  poor  little  creature. 

On  again,  all  through  the  blazing  heat  of  the 
day  we  hiked.     Tommies  would  walk  with  us, 


LEAVING  YSER 223 

easing  our  lot  in  their  rough,  kindly  manner.  They 
promised  us  Fritz  should  pay  dearly  for  his  das- 
tardly gas  attack  before  they  were  through.  On, 
on,  till  we  entered  Bailleul.  Thank  God !  Rest, 
we  thought.    But  no,  ever  on. 

And  then  the  men,  the  limit  of  endurance 
reached  and  mad  with  disappointment,  began  to 
get  in  an  ugly  mood.  Discipline  was  sorely 
strained,  and  we  openly  shouted  our  opinion  of 
the  officers  to  their  faces. 

And  then  we  witnessed  a  thing  which  brings 
tears  to  my  eyes  every  time  I  think  of  it.  Those 
officers  of  ours  —  alas,  some  of  them  were  not 
there;  they  sleep  near  Bill  Skerry  and  the  rest  — 
were  in  no  better  shape  than  ourselves;  in  fact, 
owing  to  their  responsibility,  they  were  in  worse 
plight.  Instead  of  marking  down  the  offenders 
for  future  punishment,  they  inflicted  worse  pun- 
ishment on  us  by  making  us  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  ourselves.  Lining  up  across  the  road,  they 
bade  us  halt  for  a  space,  telling  us  that  they  had 
a  bet  to  decide,  and  it  must  be  decided  at  once. 
They  were  going  to  run  a  race.    Their  effort  was 


224  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

pitiful  in  the  extreme.  They  started  out  bravely 
enough,  but  a  few  paces,  and  one  after  the  other 
would  stagger  and  fall;  but  they  struggled  to  their 
feet  and  staggered  away  again.  After  such  an 
exhibition  of  courage  what  could  we  do  or  say. 
Not  only  was  it  a  lesson  to  us,  but  it  is  one  of  the 
grandest  memories  I  have.  To  a  civilian,  perhaps, 
there  does  not  seem  a  great  deal  in  it,  but  it  was  a 
sight  we  soldiers  never  can  forget.  There  were 
those  battle-weary  men,  utterly  worn  out,  their 
nerves  on  edge,  scarcely  able  to  walk,  yet  to 
encourage  their  men,  and  show  them  that  they 
were  game  to  the  end,  they  went  through  the 
threefold  agony  of  that  race.  Such  an  example 
of  pluck,  resourcefulness,  knowledge  of  men,  and 
chivalry,  I  shall  never  witness  again. 

All  things  must  have  an  end,  be  they  good  or 
bad,  and  at  last,  what  remained  of  us,  stumbled 
into  the  yard  of  the  big  farmhouse  owned  by  the 
lady  who  objected  to  the  black  soldiers  of  Canada. 
The  sun  was  just  setting  when  we  were  finally 
dismissed.  Some  of  the  boys  never  moved  from 
the  spot  where  they  stood  before  they  were  dis- 


LEAVING  YSER  225 


missed.  They  simply  sank  down  and  slept !  slept ! 
slept!  For  myself  I  managed  to  climb  to  the 
second  floor  of  a  barn,  and  seeing  some  deep  straw 
in  one  corner  made  for  it.  I  had  my  fingers  on  the 
buckle  of  my  belt,  and  when  I  awoke  twenty-four 
hours  later  my  fingers  were  still  clutching  the 
slide-buckle.  When  I  had  fallen  down  I  had 
turned  my  head,  and  while  I  slept  on  my  stomach, 
my  head  was  turned  sideways.  On  awakening  I 
could  not  turn  my  head  in  its  proper  position, 
and  for  some  hours,  to  the  amusement  of  the  boys, 
I  was  walking  about  with  my  chin  resting  on  my 
left  shoulder.  A  vigorous  massaging  at  last  gave 
me  relief.  Then  taking  off  my  clothes  I  bathed  in  a 
dyke,  and,  such  was  my  physical  training,  I  was 
on  duty  at  headquarters  next  day. 

A  broiling  hot  day,  and  Libby,  perspiring  pro- 
fusely, hailed  me  as  I  thoughtfully  watched  the 
progress  of  a  hen  to  her  laying  place.  We  were 
not  supposed  to  steal  anything,  but  a  hungry  man 
is  not  over-scrupulous  and  that  hen  interested  me. 
The  little  dark  man,  with  his  whimsical  manly 
face,  was  the  most  cheery  comrade  I  ever  had. 


226 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"Coming  for  a  bath,  Bobbie?"  "Lord!  I 
haven't  energy  enough  to  smoke." 

"Aw,  come  on." 

"All  right,"  said  I,  and  away  we  started,  sing- 
ing at  the  top  of  our  voices,  and  made  our  way  to 
a  huge  sheet  of  water  we  could  see  in  the  distance. 
At  last  we  arrived  at  its  shores  only  to  find  that 
its  greatest  depth  was  about  six  inches.  For  the 
first  time  since  I  knew  him  I  found  that  Libby 
sometimes  did  read  his  Bible.  Gazing  at  the  fraud 
with  an  air  of  resigned  disgust  he  said  thought- 
fully, "Well,  Bobbie,  Simon  Peter  would  not 
need  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  faith  to  take  a  stroll  on  the 
waves  of  that  blankety-blank  lake." 

We  determined  to  bathe  somewhere.  There 
were  lots  of  dykes,  but  they  were  either  too  shal- 
low, too  dirty,  or  too  muddy  to  be  swimable. 
Hailing  a  farmer,  we  inquired  of  him  where  we 
could  find  a  dyke  deep  enough  to  swim  in.  Luck- 
ily he  understood  my  execrable  lingua  franca,  and 
he  led  the  way  to  a  corner  of  one  of  his  fields; 
here  a  dyke  had  widened  out  to  about  thirty  feet. 
The  water,  so  said  the  farmer,  was  about  ten  feet 


LEAVING  YSER 227 

deep.  We  did  not  doubt  him,  but  the  color 
scheme  of  the  water  was  something  even  our  sea- 
soned tastes  did  not  fancy. 

Libby  looked  at  the  water,  then  at  me,  then 
at  the  farmer.  "Hell!"  said  he,  "I  came  out  to 
have  a  swim  and  here  goes." 

Taking  off  his  few  clothes  he  dived  straight  into 
the  green  mess.  He  emerged,  swam  around  for  a 
minute,  then  climbed  the  bank.  I  howled  with 
laughter.  Libby,  like  Esau,  was  a  very  hairy  man, 
and  the  green  spawn  clung  to  his  hairy  hide  in 
long  streamers,  while  from  his  head  hung  long 
green  veils  almost  to  his  heels. 

"Oh,  look  at  the  bride,"  came  a  voice  over  my 
shoulder,  and  a  small  party  of  our  immediate 
crowd  came  up. 

"Isn't  she  perfectly  sweet4?" 

"Yes,  but  isn't  it  a  pity  she's  bow-legged!" 

"Congratulations."  This  to  me.  "You  are 
some  money  saver,  Bub,  all  you  have  to  do  when 
she  wants  a  new  dress  is  to  pitch  her  into  the  bridal 
vat." 

"Oh,  come  to  me  sticky  embrace,"  said  Batch. 


228 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

" Sure,"  ejaculates  Lib,  and  straightway  leaps  at 
Batch,  encircling  him  lovingly  with  his  spawn- 
covered  arms.  The  party  scattered  to  right  and 
left,  for  they  feared  that  the  fickle  bride  would 
shortly  transfer  "her"  affections  to  any  one  of 
them.  Lib,  with  a  yell  of  satisfaction,  relin- 
quished his  hold  on  Batch,  scurried  to  a  shallow 
but  clean  patch  of  water  farther  down  the  dyke, 
and  was  soon  rid  of  his  nuptial  garments.  I  had 
to  be  satisfied  with  a  wash  in  the  same  place. 

And  now,  great  joy  and  satisfaction  came  to 
cheer  the  hearts  of  the  Fifth.  The  Colonel  was 
seen  to  sneak  guiltily  from  the  farmhouse.  Steal- 
ing away  to  a  spot,  where  he  fondly  imagined  he 
was  unobserved,  he  sat  down  and  divested  him- 
self of  his  upper  garments.  Then  with  a  furious 
wrench  he  tore  off  his  shirt  and,  to  the  observers' 
unholy  joy,  he  commenced  to  scratch!  scratch! 
scratch!  Having  gone  well  over  his  bare  hide, 
he  turned  his  attention  to  his  shirt.  What  joy! 
The  Old  Man  was  lousy. 

Speaking  of  our  clinging  friends,  the  lice,  it 
may  be  of  interest  to  discuss  the  various  methods 


LEAVING  YSER  229 

of  taking  the  offensive,  when  they  have  massed 
for  an  attack  under  your  shirt.  The  old  method 
of  hunting,  according  to  Morgan,  was  not  really 
hunting,  but  strategy. 

"Well,  my  black-whiskered  evil  genius,"  said 
I,  "  what  is  your  wonderful  system  of  beating  them 
to  it?" 

"My  poor,  innocent  child,"  said  he,  "I  suppose 
I  must  pity  your  benighted  ignorance  and  explain. 
You  take  off  your  shirt,  pinch  a  quantity  of  salt 
well  over  it,  lay  it  down  flat  on  the  ground;  then 
get  a  pail  of  water  and  place  it  a  few  feet  away. 
The  stock  will  fall  for  the  salt  and  will  eat  it. 
Naturally,  they  get  thirsty,  and  then  beat  it  for 
the  pail.  Now  is  your  chance,  grab  your  shirt  and 
run." 

"Chatting"  was  the  professional  term  for 
hunting  on  the  Western  Front.  It  is  simply  search- 
ing for  your  gray-back  foes,  and  dispatching  them 
by  the  medium  of  one's  nails.  Another  method, 
practiced  by  highly  trained  experts,  is  to  take  a 
lighted  candle  and  run  it  up  and  down  the  seams 
of  your  clothes.    None  but  the  very  expert  can  do 


230  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

this  as  it  often  results  in  burning  holes  in  your 
clothes. 

Church  parade  took  place  the  Sunday  before  we 
left  for  further  work  with  the  Huns.  The  General 
was  to  look  us  over.  It  was  a  lovely  morning 
when  we  lined  up  in  the  field  awaiting  our  leader. 
The  scene  will  live  in  my  memory  as  long  as  I 
exist.  Very  few  traces  of  war  could  be  seen  here. 
The  field  was  carpeted  with  a  thick  growth  of 
beautiful  green  grass,  while  the  spring  flowers 
were  perfect  in  their  beauty  and  fragrance.  Tall 
poplars  fringed  three  sides  of  the  field,  and  the 
breeze  bent  them  gracefully  this  way  and  that. 
The  soft,  sighing  sound  of  this  gentle  wind,  play- 
ing through  the  poplars,  seemed  to  be  a  sweet 
requiem  for  the  very  gallant  gentlemen  of  Eng- 
land and  Canada  who  would  parade  with  us  no 
more. 

And  the  men.  God !  the  wonder  and  pathos  of 
it.  To  see  them  standing  easy,  chatting  and  jok- 
ing one  with  the  other,  one  would  have  thought 
war  was  non-existent.  But  take  a  closer  look. 
See  those  faded,  patched  uniforms,  mud-stained 


LEAVING  YSER  231 

and  blood-stained,  yet  spotless  as  far  as  human 
effort  could  make  them.  And  the  look  in  their 
eyes;  the  look!  that  far-away,  dreamy  pathetic 
stare  of  men  who  have  looked  straight  into  the 
mouth  of  hell 

A  strange  contrast  they  made  to  the  newly 
arrived  reinforcements  from  England.  The  lat- 
ter, with  their  clean  uniforms  and  their  fresh 
faces,  looked  very  boyish  and  young  against  the 
boys  who  had  been  through  the  jaws  of  death  at 
Ypres. 

All  familiar  with  the  history  of  Canada's  part 
in  the  great  conflict,  know  the  speech  delivered  to 
us  by  the  General,  and  his  words  of  confidence  and 
advice  for  the  future.  His  splendid  talk  inspired 
all  of  us  with  renewed  faith  in  our  fight. 

After  a  reorganization,  we  soon  were  ready  to 
interview  the  Fritzers  again,  and  before  long  we 
were  engaged  in  another  scrap  that  in  some 
respects  surpassed  even  Ypres  for  its  proportion 
of  casualties  on  a  narrow  front. 

Our  work  this  time  was  to  take  over  a  section 
of  the  line  that  was  in  imminent  danger  of  being 


232 HOLDING  THE  LINE. 

broken;  few  people  in  these  later  days  ever  dream 
of  the  nearness  of  the  Allies  to  absolute  defeat  in 
the  first  months  of  the  war. 

Now  I  have  something  to  tell  those  people, 
who  are  forever  lauding  the  deeds  of  Britain's  Al- 
lies, and  forever  forgetting  that  Tommy  Atkins, 
the  British  soldier,  does  a  little  fighting,  too. 

We  hear  of  the  tragedy  of  Belgium,  and  God 
forgive  any  man  who  fails  to  honor  that  noble 
little  nation;  we  hear  of  the  soul  of  France,  the 
Anzacs,  the  Canadians,  but  very  little  is  said  of 
the  men  who  quietly,  without  fuss  or  advertise- 
ment, lay  down  their  lives  in  this  great  conflict, 
the  Tommies  of  Great  Britain  — 

"For  he  does  not  advertise,  but  he  wins  the 
day  or  dies." 

People  who  have  never  felt  the  breath  of  war, 
chat  glibly  of  the  nations  engaged  in  the  conflict. 
"Where  are  the  British*?"  they  ask.  I'll  answer 
them  in  a  few  words.  The  business  of  the  Brit- 
ish soldier  is  to  down  Fritz,  and  he  is  doing  it  so 
well  that  the  newspaper  men  naturally  have  grown 
to  expect  great  things  from  him,  and  consequently 


V 


1_     > 


LEAVING  YSER  233 

never  mention  what  seems  the  perfectly  natural 
thing  for  a  British  soldier  to  do. 

It  was  to  the  aid  of  a  sorely-tried  remnant  of 
British  Tommies  that  we  were  sent.  They  had 
suffered,  only  God  and  themselves  knew  how 
much  —  but  they  were  holding,  and  reinforcements 
were  needed  badly. 

As  usual,  we  fell  in  at  dusk.  The  ordinary  ban- 
ter and  repartee  flashed  backwards  and  forwards, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  a  trifle  forced.  I  knew  it  was 
in  my  case,  but  I  had  to  keep  up  the  bluff  that  I 
was  not  afraid. 

Male  readers  may  smile  at  my  cowardice,  that 
is,  those  who  have  not  seen  men  die  in  battle. 
But  reason  it  out,  O  contemptuous  ones.  You, 
perhaps,  may  be  brave.  I  am  not,  and  in  addition 
I  have  always  had  a  repugnance  for  fighting.  I 
am  afraid  in  an  ordinary  fight,  and  can  always, 
in  imagination,  feel  the  impact  of  a  fist  landing 
with  a  sickening  crunch  on  my  features.  Before 
|the  war,  I  have  often,  only  by  sheer  effort  of  will, 
(kept  myself  from  fainting  at  the  killing  of  a  hog. 

Imagine  then,  after  having  had  experience  with 


234 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  killing  and  maiming  of  strong  men ;  after  hav- 
ing seen  young  boys  mangled  and  dying;  heard 
the  pitiful  cry  of  lonely,  wounded  laddies  from 
the  blackness  of  No  Man's  Land  at  night,  the 
gasp  for  "mother"  from  some  expiring  stalwart; 
the  stench;  the  filth  —  ah  God!  how  I  sweated 
with  horror  at  the  thought  of  being  sent  into  it 
again.  Yet,  thank  God,  I  hold  the  respect  of  my 
surviving  comrades,  and  those  in  Valhalla  will 
welcome  "Bobbie,"  when  he  joins  them. 

A  letter  from  one  of  my  officers  that  reached 
me  in  the  hospital  —  just  a  short  pencil-written 
message  —  is  my  greatest  treasure  on  earth. 
Knowing  to  the  full  how  fearful  I  always  was  in 
action,  and  how  that  constant  dread  was  ever 
present,  I  show  it  to  few.  I  am  utterly  undeserv- 
ing of  such  a  message  from  such  a  man. 

Courage  is  no  greater  in  one  nation  than  in 
another.  Among  French,  Italian,  Russian,  Cana- 
dian, Anzac  or  British,  human  self-sacrifice  is 
about  equal.  Bravery  is  the  monopoly  of  none, 
and  bravery  has  so  many  different  sides  that  it 
cannot  be  denned. 


LEAVING  YSER 235 

I  have  seen  boys,  brought  up  in  refined  homes, 
gentle  sweet- faced  laddies  —  the  last  people  in  the 
world  one  would  associate  with  soldiers  —  rise  to 
heights  of  the  most  superb  self-sacrifice.  Their 
very  refinement  has  sent  them  into  the  jaws  of 
hell  with  pale  faces  and  horror-stricken  eyes,  but 
the  mighty  spirit  has  carried  them  through. 

You,  mothers  or  sisters,  who  fear  for  your  boy, 
because  he  is  timid,  or  because  he  has  never  left 
your  side,  cease  troubling  your  hearts.  This  con- 
flict demands  more  than  the  physical  courage  of 
the  animal,  and  the  timid  man  often  turns  out  the 
very  bravest  in  action. 

But  back  to  our  campaigning.  The  order  was 
given  to  the  column  to  move  off,  and  soon  noth- 
ing was  heard  but  the  trudging  of  feet.  March- 
ing over  rough  cobbled  roads,  pock-marked  with 
shell  holes,  is  not  conducive  to  conversation.  We 
met  small  groups  of  Tommies  on  their  way  to 
rest.  The  wonder  of  it !  Plastered  with  mud, 
scarcely  able  to  walk  from  sheer  fatigue,  they 
joshed  us  unmercifully,  telling  us  with  grim 
humor  what  we  were  in  for.     Whole  platoons 


236 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

from  the  regiments  of  these  men  lay  out  in  No 
Man's  Land,  never  to  hear  the  word  of  command 
again,  yet  their  comrades  who  survived  had  the 
stomach  to  crack  jokes  at  our  expense.  And  then 
came  a  bunch  of  the  guards.  Cut  to  ribbons  at 
La  Bassee,  only  a  day  or  so  before,  yet  here  were 
the  survivors,  tired  out  as  they  must  be,  march- 
ing along  to  the  music  of  a  few  mouth-organs, 
with  that  little  swaggering  swing  of  the  shoul- 
ders—  "a  touch  of  the  London  swank." 

Dear  reader,  when  some  skeptical  anti-British 
friend  asks  why  France  should  be  called  upon  to 
do  it  all,  please  tell  them  that  the  British  Guards 
Brigade  has  been  remade  no  less  than  twenty-five 
times  since  the  war  began.  Not  reinforced,  but 
REMADE  —  new  men,  new  equipment,  new 
everything. 

How  could  we  see  all  this,  is  asked,  if  it  was 
dark.  Out  in  France,  near  the  firing  line,  flares  and 
searchlights  are  continually  lighting  up  the  whole 
country  side. 

Ambulances  with  their  moaning  freight  would 
roll  past  us.    The  sight  of  these  again  caused  my 


LEAVING  YSER  237 

heart  to  tighten,  as  though  clutched  by  some  big 
hand.  Their  number  was  appalling,  and  so  near 
to  the  firing  line  were  they,  that  we  knew  the 
righting  was  terribly  severe. 

Still,  I  was  not  given  much  time  to  let  my  feel- 
ings of  horror  work  on  me.  There  was  work  to  be 
done.  No  sooner  had  the  last  ambulance  passed  us 
than  we  began  to  click  casualties.  I  was  despatched 
with  different  messages  up  and  down  the  column. 
Round  the  corner  we  swung.  Wh-o-o-f !  Crump ! 
a  big  one  landed  just  over  the  heads  of  the  lead- 
ing platoon.  Woo-00-oo!  screamed  a  "coal  box" 
(5.9  shell),  landing  and  exploding  with  a  mighty 
rumble  only  a  few  yards  away  from  the  major. 

Fritz  was  getting  ready  to  give  the  roads  a 
thorough  searching.  To  defeat  his  plans  as  much 
as  possible,  we  deployed  from  the  road  into  the 
fields  on  our  left.  The  Boche,  unfortunately  for 
us,  chose  this  moment  to  send  up  a  series  of  flares. 
He  evidently  grew  suspicious  and  had  probably 
seen  us  moving.  T-r-r-r-r-r-r  said  his  magic  (ma- 
chine) guns.  "  God ! "  "  Oh  mother ! "  from  here 
and  there  as  some  poor  lad  went  over.    We  dived 


238  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

into  shallow  ditches  and,  crouching  under  this  frail 
cover,  tried  to  avoid  the  shower.  We  were  suc- 
cessful in  dodging  the  machine  guns,  but  shelling 
was  a  different  matter.  However,  both  died  down 
after  awhile,  and  we  began  to  stretch  ourselves. 

In  utter  darkness  we  moved  off.  We  turned 
once  I  know,  but  it  was  not  till  day  broke  that 
we  found  we  were  behind  a  low  parapet,  built 
of  nothing  but  earth  covered  with  sods.  As  pro- 
tection from  fire,  it,  of  course,  was  useless,  but 
it  served  its  purpose  by  affording  cover  from 
view.  It  was  about  a  thousand  yards  from  the 
second  line,  was  hard  to  reach  by  machine  gun 
fire,  but  an  easy  prey  to  artillerymen.  While  we 
occupied  this  flimsy  defense,  however,  we  were 
fortunate  in  getting  off  for  several  hours  without 
casualties.  The  Colonel  was  agreeably  surprised 
when  I  took  the  message  from  the  major  to  him, 
stating  that  we  had  had  no  casualties  that  day. 

Although  it  was  our  good  fortune  to  escape  that 
day,  such  was  not  the  case  with  a  battery  of  artil- 
lery that  was  parked  some  six  hundred  yards  at 
the  back  of  us.    This  battery  about  four  o'clock  in 


LEAVING  YSER  239 

the  afternoon  opened  up  for  a  few  rounds  on  the 
Fritz  position.  Probably  the  gunners  were  an- 
noyed at  the  repeated  efforts  of  the  Germans  to 
locate  them.  Big  shells  had  landed  uncomfort- 
ably close  to  the  copse  in  which  the  British  bat- 
tery was  hidden  throughout  the  day,  and  it  was 
evident  the  German  gunners  were  searching  for 
them.  In  all  probability,  some  wandering  Ger- 
man airman  had  seen  the  battery  open  fire,  and 
of  course  directed  the  fire  of  his  own  guns.  A 
huge  shell  dropped  into  the  very  center  of  the 
copse,  to  be  followed  almost  instantly  by  another. 
Trees  and  "  camouflage  "  of  grass  and  boughs  were 
blown  to  ribbons,  while  half  the  body  (the  head 
and  forelegs)  of  a  horse  landed  on  the  front  side 
of  our  flimsy  defenses.  The  battery  of  course  was 
silenced,  and  presently  the  dazed,  shell-shocked 
men  were  incoherently  telling  the  story  of  what 
had  happened  to  their  guns. 

As  the  sun  went  down  a  storm  of  strafing  began, 
while  up  and  down  the  line  flares  soared  skyward, 
and  an  incessant  stream  of  rapid  fire  told  us  that 
either  one  side  or  the  other  had  attacked.     The 


24Q HOLDING  THE  LINE 

order  came  "Stand  to."  We  were  not  to  be 
launched  into  it,  however,  for  the  firing  died  down 
into  an  intermittent  rifle  exchange,  but  the  Hun 
guns  never  ceased  their  hateful  roaring  till  almost 
daylight. 

The  limit  to  which  human  endurance  can  go 
was  practically  reached  one  afternoon,  when, 
throwing  myself  down  for  an  hour's  sleep,  I  was 
aroused  and  told  to  report  to  the  major.  He  gave 
me  a  message  and  told  me  to  get  to  headquarters 
with  it  as  quick  as  my  legs  could  carry  me.  Head- 
quarters, as  the  crow  flies,  was  about  a  mile  away, 
and  instead  of  the  usual  road,  I  thought  I  would 
go  straight  to  it.  That  decision  came  very  nearly 
preventing  the  writing  of  this  record  or  the  deliv- 
ery of  that  message. 

Just  as  I  started  out  the  Germans  began  a 
furious  strafe  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  French 
seventy-fives  and  our  own  few  sixty-pounders 
raised  their  voices  in  a  mighty  chorus.  Shells 
were  bursting  everywhere  and  the  din  simply 
stunned  me.  In  addition  I  was  continually  fall- 
ing over  a  wreck  of  barbed  wire  and  trip  wires, 


LEAVING  YSER  241 

into  shell  holes  and  my  face  once  coming  in  con- 
tact with  that  of  a  dead  guardsman's  almost 
caused  me  to  lose  my  reason,  then — blank.  All 
I  remember  was  reaching  the  road,  sitting  down 
and  trying  to  remember  what  my  name  was,  what 
I  was  there  for,  and  where  I  was.  Another  runner 
happening  to  notice  my  plight,  took  me  to  head- 
quarters himself.  What  happened  I  was  not  con- 
scious of.    It  was  told  me  later. 

The  Colonel,  growing  black  in  the  face,  trying 
to  elicit  what  I  was  there  for,  was  fast  losing  his 
temper.  I  tried  to  make  him  understand,  but  all 
I  could  do  was  to  open  my  mouth  and  make  a 
gasping  sort  of  noise.  My  wind  and  senses  had 
absolutely  left  me.  A  captain  standing  near 
guessed  what  the  trouble  was,  took  hold  of  me 
kindly,  bathed  my  face  and  head  in  cold  water  and 
revived  me  sufficiently  to  enable  me  to  deliver  my 
message. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

MORE    HELL 

THE  next  morning  the  word  was  passed  for 
runners,  and  the  company  runners  hied 
themselves  to  the  major.  He  in  turn  told  us  we 
were  to  report  to  the  Colonel  for  detailed  instruc- 
tions, and  that  we  were  to  find  out  as  much  about 
our  whereabouts  as  possible,  the  best  routes  to 
headquarters,,  to  the  front  line,  etc.  This  we 
promptly  proceeded  to  do,  and  in  due  time  ar- 
rived before  the  Old  Man.  His  words  to  us  I 
have  forgotten,  but  we  left  him  with  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  ticklish  work  on  hand. 

On  our  way  back  we  all  took  different  routes 
back  to  the  company.  The  idea,  of  course,  was 
to  get  a  knowledge  of  all  the  best  roads  to  take 
when  things  were  hot.  Each  man  mapped  out  a 
rough  sketch  of  the  road  he  had  taken  for  the  ben- 
efit of  the  others.  My  road  took  me  for  about  a 
[242] 


.MORE  HELL  243 


quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  cobbled  road,  where 
I  turned  off  for  the  major's  headquarters.  I  parted 
from  another  of  the  runners  here,  his  route  taking 
him  through  the  village.  Incidentally,  this  cool- 
est of  all  cool  fishes,  stopped  amongst  the  shattered 
houses  to  see,  as  he  afterwards  phrased  it,  "If 
there  was  anything  there  that  nobody  had  any  use 
for." 

I  might  say  the  Germans  were  always  busy  with 
their  guns  on  the  devastated  place,  but  the  inci- 
dent only  goes  to  show  the  very  peculiar  fatalism, 
that  every  soldier  unconsciously  acquires.  If  he 
was  to  be  killed  in  that  village,  he  would  get  it; 
that  is  all  there  was  to  it,  so  he  calmly  searched 
the  brick  piles.  The  horribly  mangled  trunk  of 
a  tall  soldier  did  not  make  me  any  too  happy  when 
I  stumbled  over  it  directly  after  leaving  my  part- 
ner. Still  I  carefully  mapped  out  my  route,  and 
meeting  another  clan  runner,  we  walked  the  rest 
of  the  trip  to  the  major's  quarters  together. 

"Hi  mates,"  said  a  voice  apparently  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  "come  and  'ave  a  drink  o' 
tea." 


244 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

The  voice  came  from  a  field  kitchen  cunningly 
hidden  in  a  bank  of  the  road. 

"You  bet,"  was  our  reply  together. 

The  owner  of  the  voice,  a  short  sturdy  Cock- 
ney, filled  a  dixie  and  handed  it  to  me. 

I  took  a  long  drink,  then  handed  the  canteen 
to  my  chum. 

"  I  think  I'll  stretch  me  legs,"  said  our  host. 

Forthwith  he  stepped  from  his  shelter  into  the 
road.  He  had  barely  taken  a  dozen  steps,  when 
a  small  shell  landed  quite  a  distance  in  front  of 
him.  About  a  second  after  the  explosion,  with  a 
cry,  the  man  threw  himself  flat  on  his  face  and 
lay  still.  Both  of  us  knew  that  the  shell  had 
landed  too  far  up  the  road  to  be  very  dangerous 
to  him.  We  ran  to  our  host,  turned  him  over, 
only  to  find  that  he  was  stone  dead. 

"Well  I'm  jiggered,"  said  my  runner  chum. 

"What  is  it4?"  I  asked. 

"Killed  by  a  stone." 

It  was  quite  true.  The  shell  had  hit  the  cobbles, 
and  a  flying  splinter  of  stone  had  taken  him  in  the 
head,  killing  him  instantly. 


MORE  HELL  245 


We  helped  to  bury  him.  Killed  in  the  very 
act  of  showing  kindness  to  a  comrade !  Another 
debt  to  brother  Boche. 

That  day  the  company  was  gradually  moved  to 
a  more  advanced  position,  and  again  my  heart 
tightened  as  I  listened  to  the  roar  of  the  fight  in 
front.  I  was  kept  busy  carrying  messages  back- 
wards and  forwards  to  headquarters,  to  the  front 
line,  to  the  signallers,  and  with  frequent  messages 
to  the  artillery. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  some  for  me  to  relate 
how  I  saw  one  of  my  messages  acted  upon.  My 
message  was  a  verbal  one,  and  I  delivered  it  as  I 
received  it  as  follows: 

"  To  O.  C.  2nd  Artillery  Brigade : 

"  Please  search  wood  on  my  left  flank,  range  about 
2,000  yards." 

"  From  O.  C.  No.  2  Co.  5th  Battalion. 
"  Time,  3  P.  M." 

The  artillery  O.  C.  in  charge  was  seated  in  the 
forked  branches  of  a  tall  elm  tree,  which  by  an- 
other of  those  unaccountable  miracles  had  escaped 
Fritz's  attention.    Knowing  the  Boche's  methods, 


246  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

I  expected  every  minute  to  see  the  tree  smashed 
to  flinders  by  a  salvo  from  his  guns.  The  mes- 
sage, however,  had  to  be  delivered  to  him,  so  up 
the  tree  I  scrambled.  I  felt  as  though  forty  dif- 
ferent Boche  artillery  observers  had  their  eyes 
glued  upon  me  when  I  climbed  that  tree.  Nothing 
happened  however  to  the  tree  or  its  occupants, 
and  I  hailed  the  beaming  artillery  O.  C. 

"Hello!"  roared  he. 

"Hello,  sir." 

"Great  work  the  boys  are  doing." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Then  I  repeated  my  message. 

"Yours  to  command,"  said  he,  and  bellowed 
an  order  through  the  mouthpiece  of  his  'phone. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  what  happens*?"  said  he. 

"By  gum,  yes,"  said  I,  forgetting  his  rank  in 
my  excitement.  True  enough  the  wood  was  tapped 
at  the  very  first  shot,  but  after  a  few  rounds, 
although  the  shooting  was  excellent,  he  gave  the 
order  to  "  Cease  fire." 

"What  have  you  quit  for,  sir*?" 

"  No  more  shells,"  laconically. 


MORE  HELL  247 


I  descended  the  tree  and  returned  to  the  major. 

All  this  time  the  fight  increased  in  intensity,  the 
Germans  putting  over  a  fearful  bombardment, 
both  on  the  front  line  and  away  to  the  rear.  Cas- 
ualties were  coming  by  our  location  in  an  endless 
stream.  Some  were  being  carried  to  the  dressing 
station,  but  those  who  could  walk  or  hobble  at  all, 
were  making  their  way  back  as  well  as  they  could. 
It  was  a  pitiful,  yet  a  wonderful  sight.  Their 
battered  uniforms,  plastered  with  mud  and  filth, 
bandages  of  various  hues  on  their  heads,  and  dress- 
ings on  their  limbs  and  bodies.  Some  were  being 
helped  along  by  their  comrades;  others  limped 
past  with  the  aid  of  a  rifle  used  as  a  crutch.  Some 
would  stop  for  a  rest,  and  we  would  do  all  we 
could  to  help  them,  at  the  same  time  asking  how 
things  were  going  up  in  front.  They  told  a  story 
of  tremendous  bombing  attacks,  on  both  sides, 
but  Fritz  was  having  the  better  of  the  argument, 
being  more  liberally  supplied  with  bombs.  On 
hearing  this,  I  felt  again  that  gnawing  feeling  at 
the  pit  of  my  stomach,  for  I  knew  there  would 
soon  be  some  ticklish  work  for  me.     Suddenly  the 


248 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

sight  of  that  stream  of  wounded  sickened  me  and 
I  turned  to  hide  my  face,  and  ran  straight  into 
Campbell's  arms. 

"Good  God!  Ken,  I  shall  go  crazy  if  I  don't 
do  something,  those  poor  devils  are  getting  on  my 
nerves." 

"Pluck  up,  son,"  said  he,  "you'll  feel  better 
when  we  go  up,  and  I  for  one  am  expecting  it  any 
minute." 

No  word  of  condemnation  at  my  funk,  just  en- 
couragement. Such  was  our  Ken  Campbell. 
Brave  as  a  lion  himself,  yet  possessed  of  a  rare 
sympathy  for  those  not  so  blessed. 

The  cheeriness  of  these  wounded  was  wonder- 
ful, and,  in  spite  of  their  hurts,  they  regaled  us  as 
they  passed  with  the  story  of  the  times  they  were 
going  to  have  in  Blighty. 

Then  my  call  came.  "  Pass  the  word  for  a  run- 
ner."   Away  I  went  to  the  major. 

"You  know  the  way  to  headquarters  well?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Take  this  to  Colonel  T  — ,  and  on  your  way 
up  you  will  leave  a  squad  of  bombers  at  the  bot- 


MORE  HELL  249 


torn  of  the  road  leading  to  Colonel  L  —  's 
trenches." 

The  bombers  were  all  ready  for  me,  and  string- 
ing out  in  a  line  we  began  our  journey.  We  were 
lucky,  and  I  left  the  bombers,  minus  two  who  had 
been  slightly  wounded  by  shrapnel,  at  the  ap- 
pointed place.  Wishing  them  luck  I  managed  to 
reach  the  Old  Man,  terribly  scared,  but  unhurt. 

Just  as  I  started  on  my  return  journey  a  fusil- 
lade of  bullets  began  to  chip  up  everything,  and  I 
crawled  along  thanking  heaven  I  was  a  little  man, 
and  wishing  at  the  same  time  I  was  half  as  big. 
By  and  by  I  arrived  in  safer  territory,  and  in 
spite  of  the  nature  of  the  ground,  finished  the 
trip  at  a  jog  trot. 

Again  the  boys  were  moved  nearer  to  the  first 
line.  Under  a  terrific  shell  fire,  in  small  bodies 
they  stole  to  the  dugouts  in  the  grounds  of  what 
had  been  a  beautiful  residence.  An  order  came  that 
night  for  the  boys  to  go  up  on  a  working  party.  I 
was  utterly  worn  out,  but  gritting  my  teeth  I  fell 
in  with  the  rest.  Once  more  Ken  Campbell  showed 
his  great  heart.     "God  bless  him  and  rest  him 


250 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

where  he  lies."  His  superior  does  not  exist,  and 
he  will  always  be  my  soldier  ideal  so  long  as  I 
live. 

"  Say,  Baldwin,  you  stay  behind." 

"What  for,  Sergeant-major?" 

"  Don't  answer  me  back;  you're  to  stay  here  and 
sleep." 

Without  a  word  I  fell  out,  and  walked  to  a  dug- 
out where  I  stretched  myself  out  to  sleep.  But 
sleep  would  not  come.  I  was  worried.  I  was 
wondering  whether  it  was  really  a  working  party 
the  boys  were  detailed  for.  I  imagined  what  they 
would  think  of  me  if  I  stayed  back  when  they 
faced  it.  Sleep  was  out  of  the  question,  so  I 
walked  out  to  the  sentry  on  the  road. 

"Say,  Alec,"  said  I,  "do  you  think  the  boys 
are  going  to  take  part  in  an  attack  tonight1?" 

"Don't  know,  Bobbie,  but  why  should  you 
worry'?" 

"Hell!  the  boys  will  think  I  funked." 

Further  conversation,  for  awhile,  stopped  as 
we  crouched,  while  Fritz  treated  the  dressing  sta- 


MORE  HELL  251 


tion  opposite  to  two  big  shells.    We  were  unhurt. 

Wounded  men  were  now  passing  in  streams, 
and  I  asked  if  any  of  the  Fifth  were  there. 

"No,"  was  the  reply,  "the  Fifth  went  over  to- 
night." 

"Oh,  heavens!  Alec,  they've  been  in  a  charge 
and  they'll  think  I  funked." 

"Don't  be  a  blankety-blank  fool,  Bub.  You 
have  done  your  share  today  and  you  were  ordered 
to  stay  back." 

But  my  mental  agony  increased.  What  would 
Fritz  and  Lib  think  of  me"?  What  would  Muir- 
head,  Shields  and  the  others  think4? 

Presently  a  breathless  runner  stopped  and  asked, 
"  Do  either  of  you  guys  know  the  way  to  head- 
quarters'?" 

"Sure,"  said  I,  "come  on." 

"What's  doing?"  said  I,  as  we  trotted  along. 

"Oh  Fritz  has  the  wind  up  (excited)  and 
is  rapid  firing." 

"  Is  that  all  %    You're  from  the  Eighth,  eh  <? " 

"Yep." 

"Has  the  Fifth  been  doing  anything1?" 


252 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"I  heard  they  had  gone  over  on  our  right." 

I  almost  vomited  with  shame  as  I  heard  his 
words. 

The  two  of  us  successfully  dodged  everything, 
and  I  led  the  way  to  the  Old  Man.  The  runner 
gave  his  message  and  was  asked  how  everything 
seemed. 

"Are  the  men  holding*?"  said  the  adjutant. 

"Sure,  sir,"  was  the  reply  with  that  ring  of 
pride  in  his  comrades  that  made  one's  heart  sing. 

"Take  a  rest  then,  my  boy,  you  need  it,  and 
take  your  own  time  getting  back." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

This  over,  I  ventured  to  address  the  adjutant, 
who  I  thought  was  a  little  gentler  natured  than 
the  Old  Man. 

"Sir,  did  the  Fifth  go  over  tonight4?" 

"No,  they  have  a  damned  ticklish  job,  though, 
digging  out  in  front." 

"  May  I  go  to  them,  sir?  " 

"Why?" 

"  You  understand,  sir,  they'll  accuse  me  of  funk- 
ing." 


MORE  HELL  253 


"You  go  straight  away  and  sleep,  or  I'll  have 
you  crimed  for  insolence." 

Oh,  the  relief !  I  slowly  trudged  back  and  slept 
the  coma  of  utter  exhaustion.  The  afternoon  fol- 
lowing things  became  desperate,  and  it  was  our 
lot  to  be  sent  up  to  help  reinforce  our  depleted 
lines. 

A  curious  incident  that  often  gives  me  food  for 
thought  took  place  just  before  we  ventured  out 
on  our  desperate  attempt  to  reach  the  line  in  broad 
daylight.  In  the  corner  of  two  battered  walls, 
birds  had  built  a  nest,  and  two  or  three  young  ones 
were  occupying  it.  To  keep  from  view  of  the 
airmen  we  took  shelter  behind  these  walls.  I,  as 
usual,  was  full  of  forebodings  about  the  journey 
we  were  so  soon  to  make.  Judge  of  my  wonder- 
ment when  one  of  the  boys  called  me  to  look  at 
the  way  the  parent  birds  were  feeding  their  young. 
Apparently  oblivious  of  war  or  anything  else,  with 
exclamations  of  delight,  he  studied  the  birds  as 
no  naturalist  ever  did.  The  sight  sent  my  thoughts 
flying  back  to  a  little  English  home  in  Derby. 

"Spread  out,  boys,"  came  the  order. 


254 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Our  journey  had  begun.  As  we  passed  the  third 
line  we  were  handed  additional  ammunition,  two 
bandoliers  per  man.  The  major  left  a  file  of  men 
under  the  command  of  a  lieutenant  to  look  after 
our  ammunition  magazine.  They  shook  hands 
and  then  we  deployed  out,  bang  in  the  open. 

With  fearful  cracks  the  shrapnel  burst  over  our 
heads.  Machine  guns  clattered,  but  with  perfect 
steadiness  the  boys  made  their  way  to  the  second 
line.  Here  a  fearful  sight  met  our  gaze.  The 
trench  was  battered  to  pieces,  while  dead  and 
wounded  men  lay  everywhere. 

A  call  was  sent  for  volunteers  to  get  some  of 
the  stricken  lads  from  the  first  line.  An  immediate 
response  was  given  and  under  a  terrible  fire  most 
of  the  bad  cases  were  pulled  out. 

The  attack  we  expected  fizzled  out,  but  the  fire 
never  ceased. 

Campbell  came  along  and  asked  for  volunteers 
to  carry  out  a  badly  smashed  man.  Four  of  my 
chums,  each  one  as  husky  a  specimen  of  manhood 
as  one  would  wish  to  see,  swore  profanely  they 
were  "his  meat." 


MORE  HELL  255 


"Will  you  go  out  with  them  and  carry  their 
rifles?"  said  he  to  me. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  as  my  knees  knocked  together.  The 
wounded  man  was  placed  on  a  stretcher  and  our 
journey  began. 

The  man  on  the  stretcher  was  a  big  man  and  in 
spite  of  the  strength  of  the  four  volunteer  bear- 
ers, they  were  taxed  to  the  uttermost  owing  to  the 
roughness  of  the  ground  and  the  necessity  for  tak- 
ing cover  every  other  minute  in  order  to  save  the 
wounded  man  and  themselves  from  injury. 

We  finally  reached  the  road  safely,  with  me 
bringing  up  the  rear.  I  was  carrying  five  rifles  be- 
sides my  own,  and  thinking  it  would  be  easier  to 
handle  them,  I  slung  two  over  each  shoulder,  and 
fastened  them  with  the  bayonets  slanting  front 
downwards,  and  with  the  wounded  man's  and 
my  own,  one  in  each  hand,  I  fairly  bristled  with 
bayonets. 

In  one  of  our  dashes  for  the  ditch  to  seek  cover, 
I  tripped  and  fell  forward  and  the  bayonets  of  the 
rifles  that  were  slung  on  my  shoulders  and  slanting 
forward  plunged  into  the  earth  and  forcibly  sus- 


256 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

pended  me  in  midair,  and  there  I  was  compelled 
to  hang  until  my  chums  released  me  by  taking  me 
by  the  collar  and  setting  me  on  my  feet.  Roaring 
with  laughter  my  pals  advised  me  to  unfix  the  bay- 
onets and,  said  Batch,  "Don't  go  trying  to  stab 
yourself  with  them  the  next  time  we  have  to  beat 
it  for  cover.  Oh,  runt,  you  will  be  the  death  of 
me  yet  with  your  comical  ways." 

Even  the  wounded  man,  with  five  bad  shrapnel 
wounds,  laughed  and  then  moaned  with  the  pain. 

Nothing  further  happened  until  we  came  to  the 
dressing  station  and  one  of  the  doctors  curtly  dis- 
missed us.  Batch  and  myself  decided  we  would 
make  for  our  old  dugout  by  a  short  route,  going 
by  the  north  side  of  the  dressing  station.  It  was 
now  getting  dark  and  on  our  way  Batch  inad- 
vertently plunged  head  foremost  into  a  dyke. 
First,  a  guzzle,  and  then  things  unprintable.  I 
successfully  cleared  the  dyke  by  grabbing  an  over- 
hanging willow  and  swinging  myself  across. 

Again  we  started,  falling  over  tangled  wire  in 
the  rank  grass,  and,  to  make  matters  worse,  sting- 
ing nettles,  which  grew  plentifully  in  this  par- 


MORE  HELL  257 


ticular  place,  came  constantly  in  contact  with  our 
hands  or  fa^s.  Words  again  failed  us.  As  a  cli- 
max to  our  feelings,  Fritz  right  at  this  particular 
moment  decided  to  shell  this  particular  place. 
Deafened,  almost  blinded  by  the  detonation  and 
the  flash  of  shells,  we  found  ourselves  finally  not 
at  our  dugout,  but  at  the  dressing  station  from 
which  we  had  started.  We  had  traveled  in  a  cir- 
cle. I  could  hear  nothing  but  the  grinding  of 
Batch's  big  white  teeth.  I  then  determined  to  be 
the  guide  of  our  little  party  and  so  informed 
Batch,  and  in  half  the  time  that  we  had  taken  to 
make  the  long  course,  we  found  ourselves  comfort- 
ably ensconced  in  the  dugout  at  the  house  I  have 
previously  mentioned,  and  in  short  order  Batch 
had  his  pipe  out,  smoking  strongly  with  the  com- 
plete satisfaction  of  a  man  who  has  done  his  duty. 
I  searched  for  my  pipe  and  was  dismayed  at  not 
being  able  to  find  it. 

"Where  is  your  pipe,  Bub*?"  said  Batch. 

"Blime  me,  I  guess  I  must  have  left  it  out  in 
the  dugout  by  the  apple  tree  so  I  will  go  and  see 
if  it  is  there." 


258 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"Better  find  it,  as  I  have  some  St.  Clair's  mix- 
ture from  Newcastle." 

This  tobacco  was  the  joy  of  a  soldier's  heart 
and  I  made  my  way  to  the  dugout  where  I  felt 
sure  I  had  left  it  and  there  sure  enough  it  was  ly- 
ing on  a  couple  of  sandbags.  I  grabbed  it  and 
started  back  to  rejoin  Batch,  but,  just  as  I  did 
so,  I  heard  the  peculiar  moaning  sound  of  a  "coal 
box"  that  seemed  to  be  coming  straight  at  me. 
Sweating  with  apprehension  I  threw  myself  flat 
and  waited  the  arrival  of  hell's  messenger. 
Cr-r-r-mp!  it  landed  right  on  the  dugout  I  had 
just  vacated.  Why  I  was  not  killed  instantly  is 
one  of  those  miracle  mysteries  that  can  never  be 
answered,  for  I  was  only  about  twenty  feet  away 
when  that  shell,  which  was  a  5.9  high  explosive, 
burst  directly  on  the  dugout. 

I  flung  myself  down  beside  Batch,  telling  him 
of  the  incident.  All  the  sympathy  I  got  was, 
"Serves  you  damn  well  right;  a  soldier  ought  to 
know  better  than  to  leave  his  pipe  lying  around 
loose." 

About  an  hour  after  this  the  boys  came  down 


MORE  HELL  259 


again,  with  many  familiar  faces  missing.  We 
were  allowed  a  few  hours  of  interrupted  sleep,  and 
about  daylight  we  stood  to,  as  is  the  custom  on  the 
Western  Front.  It  was  most  uncannily  quiet  after 
the  past  days  of  a  continuous  fire;  the  silence  dis- 
turbed us,  and  we  could  see  by  the  actions  of  the 
officers  that  they  too  were  uneasy.  Still  the  fa- 
talistic spirit  of  the  men  reasserted  itself  and  the 
poker  parties  soon  resumed  their  sittings. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   LAST   FIGHT 

MIDNIGHT ;  we  were  sleeping  in  an  orchard 
about  a  mile  back  of  the  lines;  I  was 
awakened  by  a  sergeant  and  told  to  "Fall  in." 
We  did  so,  and  the  captain  told  us  what  we  had 
to  do. 

"Boys,  you  are  going  to  try  and  take  Redoubt 
B;  the  artillery,  what  we  have  of  it,  will  shell 
their  first  line  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  will  lift 
and  play  on  their  second  line.  While  they  are 
doing  this  you  will  go  over.  There's  a  lot  of  us 
who  are  not  going  to  come  back,  but  the  job  must 
be  done  and  I  know  you  will  do  it." 

While  he  was  speaking,  thoughts  of  mother, 
father  and  home  surged  more  vividly  through  my 
mind  than  at  any  other  time,  but  moments  for 
reflection  were  few.  We  swung  out  of  the  orchard 
on  to  the  road  and  nothing  could  be  heard  except 
[260] 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  261 

the  dull  sound  of  trudging  feet.  Flares  would 
shoot  up  into  the  sky,  to  hang  suspended  for  a 
moment,  and  die  away  leaving  everything  in 
gloom  once  more.  Every  now  and  then  a  muffled 
shriek  or  a  coughing  gurgle  would  tell  of  the  pass- 
ing or  wounding  of  some  gallant  lad. 

By  that  corner  of  hell  we  trudged  silently, 
every  man  busy  with  his  own  thoughts.  At  last 
we  turned  up  the  death  trap  to  our  left,  on  the 
famous  Z —  road.  Over  its  ghastly  piles  of  dead 
we  filed  on  for  many  yards  without  touching  solid 
ground,  so  thickly  lay  the  dead. 

At  this  time  we  were  sighted  by  the  Huns  and 
treated  to  a  fusillade  of  machine  guns  and  rifle  fire. 
We  were  now  almost  to  shelter  and  the  men  made 
their  way,  as  only  men  under  fire  can,  to  the  safety 
of  a  well-constructed  trench. 

A  short  rest,  then  on  again,  this  time  up  a  shal- 
low communication  trench  and  then  out  behind  a 
low-lying  parapet.  Three  or  four  huge  Bavarians 
lay  with  faces  to  the  stars;  they  had  been  hur- 
riedly laid  to  one  side  by  our  leading  files. 

The  fitful  light  of  the  flares  intensified  the  mute 


262  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

horror  of  the  fallen  jaw  and  the  unspeakable 
terror  of  the  dead  faces.  Still,  such  sights  now 
failed  to  move  us,  and  with  but  a  perfunctory 
glance  we  passed  on. 

Here  we  waited  in  silence  for  the  word.  What 
an  hour  of  mental  agony.  The  steady  hammer, 
hammer  of  the  light  guns,  the  monotonous  bass 
muttering  of  the  heavies,  the  shrill,  hysterical 
crackle  of  machine  gun  and  rifle  and  the  shrieking 
and  cracking  of  bursting  shells  seemed  to  sing 
hell's  requiem  to  us  poor  mortals  waiting.  My 
God!  that  waiting.  At  such  a  time  man's  trivial 
thoughts  sink  into  utter  oblivion  and  the  naked 
soul  shows  bare. 

Apparently  calm  and  indifferent,  yet  filled  with 
a  fear,  the  like  of  which  no  one  except  those  who 
have  waited  as  we  waited  can  understand,  we 
listened  for  the  word. 

"Over  and  at  them,"  and  the  next  thing  I 
remember  I  was  plunging  forward  through  the 
mud  of  No  Man's  Land.  On  each  side  of  me 
men  were  falling,  cursing,  praying  and  gasping, 
but  unscathed  I  went  on,   two  things  mingling 


Photo  from    Underwood  &   Under-: 

READY   FOR  A   RAID  OX   THE   ENEMY'S   TRENCHES. 


Photo   -  wood  &■   Underwood,  N.    Y. 

THE  RAIDING  PARTY  GOING  TO  "GIVE  'EM  HELL." 


THE  LAST  FIGHT  263 

queerly  in  my  head:  One  was  the  words  of  a 
doggerel  song  we  sang  on  the  march, 

Wash  me  in  the  water  that  you  wash  the  dixies 

in 
And  I  shall  be  whiter  than  the  whitewash  on  the 

wall, 

and  the  other,  a  dull  wonder  why  I  was  not  killed. 
After  an  "eternity"  of  plunging  forward,  we,  a 
pitiful  few,  reached  our  objective,  the  Huns  hur- 
riedly leaving,  that  is  those  of  them  who  had  not 
joined  their  comrades  in  hell.  Still  our  work  was 
not  yet  done.  The  ground  had  been  won,  but  to 
take  it  is  one  thing,  to  hold  it  another,  and  with 
all  our  officers  gone  and  sixty  per  cent  of  the  men, 
we  must  work  to  consolidate. 

Just  as  I  seized  a  sandbag  full  of  earth  to  place 
in  front  of  me,  I  felt  a  stinging  smack  on  my 
ankle,  as  though  I  had  been  kicked.  I  turned  to 
curse  the  man  who  I  thought  had  kicked  me  and 
then  I  fell  over  with  a  scream  of  pain.  My  left 
foot  was  smashed  completely  by  a  soft-nosed 
bullet. 

I  had  merely  commenced  to  feel  the  sting  of 


264 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

the  pain  when  the  Huns  rushed  us  again  and  it 
was  hand  to  hand.  A  Bavarian  lunged  toward 
me  with  rifle  clubbed;  I  closed  my  eyes,  as  I  was 
utterly  helpless  and  waited  for  my  skull  to  be 
smashed.  The  blow  did  not  fall.  I  opened  my 
eyes  just  in  time  to  see  our  sergeant-major  plunge 
his  bayonet  through  the  Bavarian's  neck.  Down 
flopped  the  Hun  on  all  fours,  with  his  hands  one 
on  each  side  convulsively  clutching  the  bayonet, 
and  he  sat  immediately  opposite  me,  just  a  bare 
few  yards  intervening,  during  all  the  hours  I  was 
there,  with  a  hellish  grin  on  his  face.  When  the 
pain  of  the  wound  would  subside  and  I  would 
doze  away  for  a  few  minutes  I  would  awaken  with 
a  shudder,  as  I  thought  the  dead  Hun  was  mov- 
ing his  face  closer  and  closer  toward  mine. 

At  this  time  I  had  an  undying  instance  of  the 
devotion  of  my  chum,  Morgan.  He  also  was 
wounded,  not  so  badly  as  I  was,  but  time  and 
again,  at  a  terrible  risk  to  himself,  he  would  crawl 
over  and  help  me  regain  a  more  comfortable  posi- 
tion, all  the  time  suffering  intensely  from  his  own 
wound,  which  was  very  painful. 


THE  LAST  FIGHT 265 

Nothing  could  be  done  for  any  of  the  wounded, 
so  serious  was  the  position  of  the  remnant  of  the 
boys.  Their  business  was  to  hold  what  they  had 
won  and  the  wounded  must  do  the  best  they  could. 
The  remnant,  however,  were  of  the  Fifth  and  they 
held  until  relieved  and  reinforcements  arrived 
twenty-four  hours  later. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE    AFTERMATH 

ONCE  during  that  weary  day,  the  Germans 
put  over  such  a  terrific  barrage  of  shrapnel, 
that  I,  for  one,  thought  it  impossible  for  any  of  our 
wounded  to  survive.  Such  is  the  mercy  of  the 
Hun.  Hour  after  hour  passed,  casualties 
mounted  steadily  up,  but  those  laddies  held.  As 
time  went  on,  the  pain  in  my  wounded  leg  became 
excruciating,  and,  forgetting  the  etiquette  of  the 
Western  Front  that  a  man  must  not  squeal  too 
much  when  he  is  hit,  I  groaned  aloud.  I  shall  be 
ashamed  to  meet  many  of  my  comrades  in  later 
days,  for  they  remember  my  whimpering. 

Night  came,  darkness  being  heralded  by  a  storm 
of  strafeing  on  both  sides.  The  bullets  thudded 
about  the  top  of  the  water  hole,  while  the  noise  of 
the  strife  drowned  my  yells,  as  the  gangrene 
slowly  ate  its  way  up  my  limb.  Hour  after  hour 
[266] 


THE  AFTERMATH  267 

I  lay,  till  at  last  that  grand  sergeant-major  of  ours 
came  along  and  gave  me  a  nip  of  rum.  Oh,  you 
psalm-singers,  who  raise  your  holy  hands  in  horror 
at  the  thought  of  the  perdition  the  boys  are  bound 
for,  if  they  should  happen  to  take  a  nip  of  rum  to 
keep  a  little  warmth  in  their  poor  battered  bodies, 
I  wish  you  could  all  lie  shivering  in  a  hole  full  of 
icy  liquid  mud,  with  every  nerve  in  your  body 
quivering  with  pain,  with  the  harrowing  moans 
of  the  wounded  forever  ringing  in  your  ears,  with 
hell's  own  din  raging  all  around.  Any  one  of 
you  would  need  a  barrel  of  it  to  keep  his  miserable 
life  in  his  body. 

Here  and  now  let  me  say,  the  man  who  refuses 
the  rum  issue  is  considered  a  fool. 

Picture  to  yourselves  the  dawn  after  a  bitter 
cold  night  in  the  trenches.  Weary  soldiers  wet  to 
the  skin,  working  all  night  in  a  most  dangerous 
place,  probably  expecting  an  immediate  attack 
from  the  enemy,  dirty,  vermin  covered,  muddy, 
and  without  one  single  comfort.  If  rum  helps 
under  these  conditions  who  can  say  nay.  Some 
people  have  the  idea  that  the  men  are  liberally 


268 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

dosed  with  rum  before  they  go  over  the  top.  This 
may  be  true  in  some  instances,  but  as  far  as  I  know, 
no  British  troops  ever  need  that  kind  of  Dutch 
courage  to  go  over  the  top.  All  the  rum  I 
ever  got  during  my  whole  term  of  service  in 
Flanders  would  not  make  a  man  drunk,  and  it  is 
a  question  whether  the  amount  I  had  for  three 
months  in  the  summer  would  make  a  seasoned 
toper  unsteady.  All  that  a  man  gets  is  about  the 
third  part  of  a  small  cup  every  night  and  morning. 
The  following  from  the  London  Winning  Post 
just  about  expresses  my  thoughts  in  this  regard: 

I  suppose  we're  a  lot  of  heathens, 

Don't  live  on  the  angel  plan, 
But  we're  sticking-  it  here  in  the  trenches, 

And  doing  the  best  we  can. 

When  preachers  over  in  Blighty, 
Who  talk  about  Kingdom  Come, 

Ain't  pleased  with  our  performance, 
And  are  wanting  to  stop  our  rum, 

Water,  they  say,  would  be  better; 

Water !    Great  God,  out  here  ? 
Why,  we're  up  to  our  knees  in  water  — 

Do  you  think  we're  standing  in  beer? 


THE  AFTERMATH  269 

Oh,  it  sounds  all  right  from  the  pulpit, 
When  you  sit  in  a  cushioned  pew; 

But  try  four  days  in  the  trenches, 
And  see  what  water  will  do. 

Some  of  the  coffin-faced  Blighters 

I  think  must  be  German-bred; 
It's  time  that  they  called  in  the  doctor, 

For  it's  water  they  have  in  the  head. 

That  nip  of  rum  put  hope  into  my  heart  once 
more,  and  I  bit  my  lips  and  stifled  my  agony  as 
well  as  I  could. 

Dawn  broke,  and  just  as  the  first  streaks  crept 
into  the  sky,  the  firing  died  down  and  that  mystery 
which  broods  over  the  wonder  of  night  turning 
into  day  pervaded  outraged  nature  and  even  war- 
ring man.  As  I  watched,  the  details  of  my  watery 
retreat  became  plainer  and  plainer;  I  grew 
ashamed  of  my  cowardice,  and  I  did  my  best  to 
stifle  my  groans. 

At  last  Sergeant  Purslowe,  a  replica  of  Camp- 
bell in  coolness  and  leadership,  noticed  my  plight 
and  immediately  set  to  work  to  get  me  carried 
out.    My  comrades  were  only  too  willing,  but  they 


2;o  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

waited  in  vain  for  a  stretcher.  Alas !  There  were 
entirely  too  few  to  accommodate  half  the 
wounded.  Nothing  for  it  but  to  carry  me  on  their 
backs.  Oh !  the  agony  of  that  rough  ride,  and  oh ! 
the  sacrifice  of  those  blood  brothers  of  mine.  With 
my  foot  hanging  by  a  shred  of  flesh,  the  bones 
grating  against  one  another,  shivering  with  cold, 
yet  with  perspiration  standing  out  from  every  pore 
with  the  pain,  I  was  gradually  carried  from  the 
line  we  had  taken.  Once  when  passing  a  huge 
shell  crater,  the  pain  not  yet  having  robbed  me 
of  my  senses,  I  asked  to  be  left  till  night-time  in 
its  shelter.  It  was  broad  daylight,  and  there  was 
that  little  bunch  of  men  risking  utter  annihilation 
just  that  a  stricken  chum  might  live. 

They  cursed  my  groans ;  they  cursed  the  Huns ; 
in  fact,  their  language  was  sulphurous,  yet  I  no- 
ticed I  was  saved  from  all  jar  or  jolt,  as  far  as  they 
could  prevent  it;  and  when  I  asked  to  be  left  in  the 
shell  hole  they  cursed  me  for  a  blankety-blank 
fool,  and  profanely  refused  to  do  it.  Think  of 
it,  you  psalm-singers,  who  are  worried  over  the 
morals  of  your  soldiers.     Picture  those  men,  in 


THE  AFTERMATH  271 

full  view  of  the  Huns,  in  broad  daylight,  refusing 
to  leave  their  chum  at  any  cost.  Any  minute,  any 
second,  might  blast  them  off  the  face  of  the  earth, 
yet  no  thought  for  their  own  safety,  until 
"Shorty"  was  at  the  dressing  station.  Since  that 
time,  Campbell,  Shields  and  Cameron,  have  paid 
the  supreme  price,  while  Muirhead,  Mead  and 
Nish  are  crippled  for  life. 

It  was  curious  to  watch  their  hesitation,  even  in 
the  face  of  the  danger  they  were  in,  to  get  me  over 
the  parapet  into  what  was  now  the  second  line 
trench.  They  hated  to  cause  me  pain.  A  sym- 
pathetic Cockney,  of  the  L.  R.  B.'s,  gently  lowered 
me  to  the  fire-step  and  proceeded  to  get  a  stretcher. 
My  ride  now,  although  terribly  painful,  was  de- 
cidedly easier.  They  tied  my  wounded  leg  to  the 
sound  leg,  thus  preventing  that  horrible  rubbing 
together  of  the  fractured  bones. 

Reaching  the  dressing  station  I  shook  hands  — 
for  the  last  time,  alas  —  with  Campbell  and 
Shields  and  the  others,  and  received  a  huge 
draught  of  scalding  tea.  The  dressing  station 
was  completely  empty  and  it  was  thought  I  would 


272  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

have  to  wait  until  night,  but  one  belated  ambu- 
lance driver  came  to  have  a  final  look  to  see  if  any 
of  the  boys  needed  a  ride  down.  I  was  hoisted 
aboard  and  oblivion  promptly  followed.  I  awoke 
to  find  myself  lying  in  the  middle  of  a  road  on  a 
stretcher  and  a  doctor  smiling  down  at  me. 

"How  are  you,  son*?"  said  he. 

"  Not  so  bad,"  said  I,  "  is  it  good  enough  for 
Blighty?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  genial  saw-bones.  "I'm 
going  to  take  that  foot  off  right  now,  and  I'm 
going  to  hurt  you,  son.  It's  hardly  worth  while 
giving  you  any  dope,  since  I've  only  to  cut  through 
that  bit  of  flesh.    Are  you  game"?" 

"Go  ahead,"  I  replied,  "I'm  sick  and  tired  of 
seeing  the  thing." 

Smiling  down  at  me,  to  reassure  me,  he 
reached  in  his  pocket,  produced  two  cigars,  placed 
one  in  his  mouth,  lit  it,  then  placed  it  in  mine. 
The  other  he  placed  in  the  pocket  of  my  shirt.  I 
lay  back,  averting  my  eyes,  expecting  every  min- 
ute to  feel  a  horrible  cutting  sensation.  Then  I 
heard  the  doctor  sigh.     I  looked  up  and  to  my 


THE  AFTERMATH  273 

astonishment  my  foot  was  gone.  Such  was  the 
amazing  gentleness  and  skill  of  the  wonderful 
doctor ;  God  bless  him  wherever  he  is ! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN   HEAVEN 

MY  foot  gone,  I  knew  that  my  fighting  and 
marching  days  were  over,  and  the  feeling 
of  safety  after  what  I  had  undergone  brought  on 
the  inevitable  reaction.  I  became  light-headed, 
and  shortly  after  my  senses  left  me  completely, 
and  I  remember  only  vaguely  snatches  of  my  jour- 
ney from  the  firing  line  to  the  embarkation  port 
for  Blighty.  Several  more  operations  on  my 
leg  I  knew  had  taken  place,  but  except  for  a  night 
at,  I  believe,  Le  Touquet,  I  remember  little. 

Here  a  little  French  nurse  attended  to  six  of  us. 
As  far  as  I  can  recollect,  we  were  in  the  room  of 
a  chateau,  for  the  walls  were  covered  with  old 
tapestry.  Oh!  the  wonderful  little  French  lady. 
No  task  was  too  mean  for  her  to  perform  for  us. 
In  my  weak  condition  I  wanted  to  stroke  her  spot- 
less apron,  to  see  if  she  were  real,  and  that  little 
[274] 


IN  HEAVEN  275 


French  nurse  was  the  first  angel  I  ever  saw.  I 
doubt  whether  I  shall  ever  see  any  angels  after  this 
life  finishes  for  me,  but  if  anyone  doubtful  of  their 
future  in  the  next  world  wishes  to  see  the  real 
angels,  let  them  go  to  any  of  our  big  hospitals  in 
France  or  Britain;  there  they  will  see  them.  God 
bless  those  magnificent  women  of  France  and 
Britain.  And  I  know,  before  the  Hun  is  finally 
vanquished,  the  women  of  the  United  States  will 
be  vieing  with  their  sisters  overseas  in  their  de- 
votion to  the  land  they  represent  and  the  holiness 
of  the  cause  to  which  they  have  so  freely  given 
their  stalwart  men  folk. 

At  last  I  was  loaded  on  the  Blighty  ship,  and  my 
journey  to  heaven  commenced.  So  far  as  I  re- 
member, nothing  of  moment  happened  on  the  trip. 
Southampton  was  our  destination,  and  the  first 
breath  of  air  I  took  into  my  lungs,  when  lying  on 
the  deck  of  the  ship  there,  seemed  the  sweetest 
thing  I  ever  tasted  —  free  from  all  smell  of  burst- 
ing shells,  free  from  taint  of  rotting  bodies,  free 
from  the  danger  of  flying  death,  and,  above  all, 
the  air  of  England. 


276  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

And  now  I  came  near  to  losing  what  the  Huns 
had  failed  to  take.  The  people,  when  we  were 
being  moved  from  ship  to  train  in  their  desper- 
ation to  show  their  sympathy  for  us,  showered 
kindness  upon  us.  Right  here  and  now  I  want  to 
say  I  would  lose  fifty  legs,  if  I  had  them,  or 
fifty  arms,  for  those  wonderful  people ;  and  in  my 
weak  condition  I  was  in  danger  of  dying  from 
sheer  excitement  and  happiness. 

Up  through  that  wondrous  green  country  side 
we  sped,  and  oh,  how  I  persisted  in  lifting  myself 
from  my  cot,  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  the  nurses, 
to  look  out  on  that  smiling  land.  What  a  change 
from  the  utter  devastation  of  that  hell's  land 
from  which  I  had  come.  At  Birmingham  we 
stopped  for  a  space,  being  met  by  a  party  of 
nurses,  doctors  and  Red  Cross  people.  Oh,  their 
wondrous  kindness!  In  spite  of  the  pain,  I  con- 
sidered myself  the  luckiest  man  alive  to  be  so 
spoilt.    I  often  wish  I  was  wounded  again. 

Leaving  Birmingham,  from  where  I  sent  a  short 
message  to  my  mother,  acquainting  her  of  the  fact 
of  having  "got  mine,"  the  train  did  not  stop  till 


IN  HEAVEN  277 


we  reached  Liverpool.  We  were  met  at  the  depot 
by  ambulance  cars,  and  on  these  we  were  loaded. 
I  was  so  happy,  I  swore  at  the  driver  so  pictur- 
esquely, and  so  fluently,  that  he  stopped  his  car 
to  congratulate  me.  Passing  through  the  city  we 
were  bombarded  by  the  populace  with  every  con- 
ceivable dainty  they  could  get.  Some  of  them 
landed  on  my  game  leg,  and  I  again  earned  the 
driver's  profane  admiration. 

Suddenly  I  became  aware  that  the  man  on  the 
other  stretcher  was  trying  to  attract  my  attention. 

"What  is  it,  chum'?"  said  I. 

In  a  husky  whisper  he  answered,  "  Shot  through 
the  guts,  and  I  ain't  seen  a  bloody  German.  Ain't 
that  the  devil'?"  I  agreed  and  nodded  my  ac- 
quiescence. To  the  anxious  ones  I  am  glad  to  say 
he  recovered,  and,  although  not  fit  for  more  active 
service,  is  still  doing  fine. 

Arrived  at  the  hospital  we  were  unloaded  and 
carried  to  our  respective  cots.  When  they  set  me 
down  by  the  side  of  what  was  to  be  my  bed,  the 
orderly  says  to  me : 

"What's  the  matter  with  you*?" 


278  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"  Oh,  just  a  bit  of  a  wound  in  the  foot." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  he. 

"  Take  a  look,"  says  I.    He  did  so. 

"Aw  hell,"  said  he,  "I  was  going  to  cuss  yer 
fer  swinging  the  lead,  and  going  to  tell  yer  ter  get 
on  th'  bed  yerself,  and  I  begs  yer  pardon.  All 
right,  son." 

Next  along  came  Doctor  Evans,  who,  appar- 
ently oblivious  of  my  yells  and  sulphurous  re- 
marks, proceeded  to  examine  my  leg. 

"Another  piece  to  come  off,"  says  he,  "and  it 
will  have  to  be  done  in  a  few  hours'  time  or  you'll 
lose  the  whole  limb." 

I  was  sick  of  the  wretched  thing. 

"Go  ahead,  sir,"  said  I.  Then  after  a  few 
hours'  waiting  I  started  for  the  "pictures"  —  for 
my  last  carving.  Now  although  I  remembered  lit- 
tle of  my  journey  through  France,  I  remembered 
sufficient  to  know  that  I  had  used  some  typical 
Canadian  profanity  while  under  the  influence  of 
ether.  Out  there  I  did  not  mind,  for  only  men 
were  present  at  the  carving,  but  here  was  a  situ- 
ation. A  nurse  was  accompanying  me  to  the  oper- 


IN  HEAVEN  279 


ating  theater.  "  Oh,  horrors ! "  thought  I,  "  I  know 
I  shall  cuss.  What  will  she  think?  I  mustn't 
swear,  oh !  I  mustn't  swear ! "  Trying  to  impress 
on  my  subconscious  mind  that  I  must  not  swear 
while  under  the  influence  of  ether,  I  was  placed 
on  the  table  and  —  oblivion. 

I  came  to  myself  with  a  yell.  I  fancied  I  had 
been  rising  to  the  surface  of  a  deep  ocean,  as  black 
as  ink,  and  just  as  I  was  about  to  drown  I  awoke. 
Taking  stock  of  my  surroundings,  I  looked  across 
the  ward.  A  man  was  looking  at  me  and  laughing 
till  I  thought  he  would  hurt  himself. 

"Well!  what  the  devil  is  amusing  you?"  I 
asked  irritably,  the  horrible  nausea  having  its 
effect. 

"Well,  my  son,"  was  the  reply,  "I've  been  in 
Africa,  India,  Singapore,  and  a  few  places  on  this 
old  globe,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  ever  heard  language 
till  I  heard  you  a  little  while  ago.  Whew!  it 
was  an  education." 

Then  he  told  me  the  story.  All  had  gone  well 
until  I  had  been  placed  on  my  cot.  Now  a  man 
will,  under  the  influence  of  an  anaesthetic,  ap- 


280  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

parently  seem  to  know  what  is  going  on  around 
him,  and  will  answer  questions  coherently,  though 
he  knows  nothing  about  it.  I  had  been  lying  on 
my  cot  a  few  minutes  when  an  orderly  came  by, 
carrying  a  tray  of  enamel  cups.  He  stumbled  and 
fell,  upsetting  the  tray  and  its  contents  with  a 
crash.  It  was  then  I  reached  to  heights  of  superb 
eloquence,  and  I  was  in  disgrace. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

BACK  TO   EARTH 

IT  was  curious  to  watch  the  nurses  glance  fur- 
tively in  my  direction  with  looks  of  mingled 
horror  and  curiosity.  They,  too,  had  heard  swear- 
ing in  their  career  of  healing  broken,  fighting  men, 
but  in  one  apparently  so  young  and  unsophisti- 
cated— "it  is  just  shocking!" 

After  the  horrible  nausea  had  left  me,  the  nurse 
asked  me  what  I  would  like,  and  what  I  had 
longed  for  a  thousand  and  one  times  in  France 
came  to  my  mind.  "A  bottle  of  Bass  or  Guin- 
ness'," I  said.  Back  she  came  with  a  little  of  the 
Guinness'  in  a  cup,  and  I  sank  into  the  first  dream- 
less sleep  I  had  had  for  ages. 

I  was  awakened  by  the  pain  in  my  limb,  so  be- 
gan to  interest  myself  in  the  other  patients.  Oh, 
the  exhibition  of  patience,  courage  and  suffering, 
both  on  the  part  of  patients  and  the  doctors  and 

nurses. 

[281] 


282  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

Doctor,  or  Major  Evans  came  to  see  me.  "How 
are  you,  laddie*?" 

"Doing  all  right,  sir." 

"Good  boy!     From  the  prairies,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  need  fresh  air,  for  a  constitution  like  you 
possess  was  never  made  indoors,  and  I  will  have 
you  carted  out  into  the  open  air  every  fine  day  we 
have." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  the  orderly 
duly  came  and,  with  the  help  of  the  sister,  I  was 
taken  out  on  to  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  ward.  I 
had  been  there  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when 
another  patient  was  carried  out  and  his  bed  placed 
alongside  mine.  I  turned  to  look  at  the  other  fel- 
low and  a  familiar  face  glared  at  me.  Spontane- 
ously from  both  of  us  —  "  Well,  I'll  be  damned !  " 

It  was  Bill  Moore,  of  my  own  company,  some- 
times called  "  Rosie,"  for  a  pet  name. 

"When  were  you  hit?'''  I  asked. 

"In  the  charge  a  week  back." 

"Not  when  we  lost  all  but  two  of  the  officers 
at  Z—  ?" 


THE  "WAR  TWINS." 


My  chum  Moore  and  I  enlisted  at  the  same  time,  served 
together  at  the  front,  lost  our  left  legs  in  the  same  fight,  and  are 
now  engaged  in  the  same  work— trying  to  help  the  Cause. 


BACK  TO  EARTH  283 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

"  I  got  mine  there  too." 

"The  devil,  you  say!" 

"Sure,"  I  said. 

"What  you  got?"  he  asked. 

"An  explosive  bullet." 

"Well,  I'm  jiggered,  I  was  hit  by  one,  too.  But 
where  did  it  take  you*?" 

"In  the  ankle." 

"This  is  some  coincidence,  kid,  mine  was  in  the 
ankle,  too." 

"Which  one?" 

"The  left." 

"Same  here.  When  did  you  get  your  final 
chunk  taken  off?"  I  asked. 

"About  thirty  hours  back." 

"  Same  here.  But,  say,  who  gave  you  the  right 
to  mimic  me?" 

We  talked  and  talked  until  exhausted  and  we 
were  told  to  stop  it. 

This  wonderful  chain  of  coincidences  would 
scarcely  be  complete  were  I  to  leave  out  the  fact 
that  we  are  of  the  same  age,  enlisted  at  the  same 


284  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

time,  in  the  same  company,  and,  as  related  above, 
were  wounded  at  the  same  time,  in  the  same  battle, 
on  the  same  day.  And,  to  make  the  chain  perfect, 
we  received  our  artificial  legs  on  the  same  day  in 
the  city  of  Toronto,  Ontario.  And,  the  finishing 
touch  to  the  list,  here  we  are  again,  working  to- 
gether for  all  we  are  worth  in  the  task  of  getting 
recruits  through  the  British-Canadian  Recruiting 
Mission  in  Chicago.  Little  wonder  is  it  that  we 
are  christened  the  "War  Twins." 

Time  sped  rapidly  in  the  hospital,  and  the 
Angel  of  Healing,  coupled  with  the  untiring  minis- 
trations of  two  of  the  dearest  women,  my  night, 
and  my  day  nurses,  rapidly  brought  me  back  to 
my  normal  condition  of  health. 

I  cannot  go  further  without  telling  of  the  won- 
derful power  that  lies  in  a  good  woman.  Nurse 
Daniels,  the  night  sister,  called  me  her  "model 
patient."  I  suppose  she  called  every  other  patient 
the  same  thing,  unknown  to  the  others.  This 
woman  could  make  men  feel  better  by  simply 
smiling  at  them.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  eager- 
ness with  which  the  boys  watched  for  her  coming 


BACK  TO  EARTH  285 

at  night.  In  she  would  walk,  erect  as  a  guards- 
man, looking  the  perfect  English  lady  in  her  uni- 
form. 

"Good  evening,  children." 

"  Good  evening,  sister." 

"Have  you  been  good  boys  today*?" 

"The  little  Canuck  has  been  trying  to  swipe 
some  of  your  photographs,  sister." 

"Oh,  the  little  rascal!  Doesn't  his  face  belie 
his  character?"  With  such  light  badinage  she 
would  make  her  way  through  the  ward,  smoothing 
a  pillow,  soothing  some  poor  lad's  agony  with  those 
wonderful  cool  hands  of  the  born  healer,  jokingly 
chiding  a  few  of  us  slightly  wounded  men  for 
making  so  much  of  our  wounds  in  order  to  get  a 
caress  from  her,  but  we  always  got  the  caress. 

One  night,  in  my  restlessness,  I  had  completely 
removed  the  dressing  from  my  stump,  and  that 
wonderful  woman  had  redressed  the  stump, 
brushed  my  hair,  or  what  remained  of  it  at  that 
time,  and  departed  to  other  duties  without  even 
awakening  me. 

One  of  the  things  which  most  troubled  me  dur- 


286 HOLDING  THE  LINE 

ing  the  night  was  the  recurrence,  regularly  for 
many  nights,  of  a  torturing  dream,  in  which  I 
fancied  I  was  being  rushed  into  the  fighting  again, 
with  my  foot  hanging  on  by  a  shred,  and  the  pain 
that  I  felt  in  my  dream,  as  well  as  the  terror, 
would  cause  me  to  wake  up  with  a  frightened 
shriek,  but  almost  instantly  the  gentle,  cooling 
hands  of  my  angel  nurse  would  be  soothing  my 
aching  head,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  would  be 
myself  again. 

The  blessed  woman  seemed  to  be  possessed  of 
a  wonderful  intuition,  for  never  would  I  want  a 
glass  of  lemonade,  or  some  other  soothing  nourish- 
ment, but  it  was  on  the  locker  at  my  hand  before 
I  asked  for  it. 

The  attentions  showered  upon  us  by  visitors 
were  so  many  and  varied  that  it  would  take  a 
volume  in  itself  to  recount  them.  Some  of  them 
have  afforded  me  a  good  laugh,  more  than  once. 
They  were  all  heartfelt  and  sincere,  comical  as 
some  of  them  were,  in  their  desire  to  do  something 
for  us,  no  matter  how  small  the  courtesy  might  be. 
Once   when   careening  about  on   a   wheel-chair, 


BACK  TO  EARTH  287 

amusing  the  rest  of  the  boys  by  my  antics,  the 
head  sister  brought  in  a  lady  visitor.  This  lady 
had  befriended  a  Canadian  boy  before  he  went 
to  the  front,  and  she  thought  the  world  of  him. 
The  lad  had  been  wounded  in  the  same  action  as 
myself,  and,  learning  of  his  being  in  the  hospital 
at  Liverpool,  she  hastened  to  try  and  find  him. 
Incidentally  the  good  lady  had  some  little  comfort 
for  every  Canadian  boy  she  ran  across. 

The  lady  peered  at  me  through  her  spectacles, 
and  the  head  sister,  noticing  her  short-sightedness, 
came  to  the  rescue  with  the  following: 

"  No,  although  this  little  fellow  came  over  with 
the  Canadians,  he  is  not  the  one  you  are  looking 
for,  for  he  is  only  an  Englishman." 

"Dear,  oh  dear,  you  don't  tell  me!  Only  an 
Englishman,"  the  old  lady  repeated,  half  to  her- 
self and,  smiling  at  the  thought,  she  resumed  her 
search  for  the  Canadian. 

In  the  light  of  the  detailed  accounts  given  in 
the  newspapers  of  the  United  States  and  Canada 
of  the  splendid  work  performed  by  the  Canadian 
soldiers  on  the  Western  Front,  it  is  barely  possible 


288  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

that  the  lapsus  lingua  of  the  nurse  may  find  a  re- 
sponsive chord  in  the  minds  of  some  in  America. 
There  is  no  doubt  it  would  make  an  admirable 
talking  point  for  German  propagandists  in  the 
spread  of  a  certain  phase  of  their  humbug. 

Another  dear  old  lady,  in  the  fullness  of  her 
heart,  and  thoroughly  sincere,  came  into  the  ward 
one  visitors'  day.  She  carried  in  her  hand  a  bag 
of  candy  acid  drops,  which  is  often  advised  as  an 
antidote  for  thirst.  It  would  take  a  good  many 
acid  drops  to  ease  the  parched  throat  of  a  wounded 
man  on  a  hot  summer's  night. 

"Oh,  you  poor  dear  boys,"  said  she,  as  she 
gravely  placed  two  of  the  acid  drops  on  our  lock- 
ers, "how  you  have  suffered  for  us !  Sometimes  in 
the  night  you  may  get  thirsty,  and  one  of  these 
drops  will  quench  your  thirst." 

Out  of  respect  for  the  old  dear,  we  held  our 
outburst  until  she  was  well  out  of  the  door.  The 
thought  of  some  of  those  tough  old  campaigners 
alleviating  their  thirst  with  an  acid  drop  was  so 
irresistably  funny  that  it  is  a  wonder  some  of  the 
fellows  didn't  crack  some  of  the  stitches  of  their 


BACK  TO  EARTH  289 

wounds,  so  convulsed  were  they.  One  Tommy 
was  particularly  uproarious. 

"Fawncy  the  old  deah  coming  round  of  a 
morning  in  the  ditch  and  'anding  us  hout  one  of 
those  hacid  drops  in  pi  ice  o'  the  rum  ration !  Just 
fawncy ! "    And  I  thought  he  would  split. 

Another  time  when  my  war  twin  had  labori- 
ously wheeled  himself  to  the  hospital  gates  to  see 
the  visitors  come  in  on  visitors'  day,  he  had  his 
knee  covered  with  a  blanket,  and  no  one  could 
really  tell  what  ailed  him.  Bill  sat  thoughtfully 
watching  the  "sweet-hearts,  wives  and  muvvers 
everlastingly  passing  by,"  and  fuming  somewhat 
to  himself  at  the  tardiness  of  the  demure  little 
maiden  who  had  claimed  him  as  her  especial  charge. 
While  waiting  impatiently,  a  dear  old  lady  ap- 
proached.   She  carried  a  little  bag  of  plums. 

"Good-day,  my  boy,  how  are  you  feeling  to- 
day?" 

"Oh,  fairly  well,  madam,  thank  you,"  said  Bill. 

"You  are  a  Canadian,"  noticing  the  Canadian 
badge  Bill  wore  proudly  on  the  breast  of  his  hos- 
pital jacket. 


29Q HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  Canadian." 

"From  what  part  of  Canada  do  you  come*?" 

"  Saskatchewan,  madam." 

"Dear  me,  and  how  far  is  that4?" 

"About  five  thousand  miles." 

"And  are  you  badly  wounded?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  exhibiting  his  legs,  "the  canary  flew 
out  of  its  cage  and  bit  me." 

"How  terrible!  but  how  wonderful!  how  mag- 
nificent !  Just  fancy,  you  have  come  all  that  dis- 
tance to  fight  for  us,  and  lost  your  poor  leg,  too. 
How  can  we  possibly  reward  you!  Won't  you 
have  a  plum*?"  holding  out  the  bag,  and  Bill  ex- 
tracted a  plum. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing  at  all,  ma'am,"  said  Bill. 
"I'd  do  the  same  thing  over  again,  and  lose  my 
other  leg,  if  necessary,  for  the  Old  Flag." 

"How  perfectly  splendid  and  noble  of  you! 
We  never,  never  can  repay  you  sufficiently.  Oh, 
do  have  another  plum." 

Bill  gravely  and  thankfully  accepted  the  other 
plum,  and  the  good  old  lady  proceeded  on  her 
mission  of  kindness. 


BACK  TO  EARTH 291 

When  I  had  become  sufficiently  strong  to  take 
notice  of  my  surroundings,  and  the  love  of  life  had 
come  back  to  me,  I  began  to  wonder  how  it  fared 
with  my  own  immediate  chums.  Campbell,  Cam- 
eron, Muirhead,  and  Nish,  and  Shields  were  all 
right,  for  they  had  carried  me  from  the  line,  but 
I  was  anxious  about  Libby  and  Morgan  and  little 
Fitzpatrick.  Billy  Meade,  who  has  not  had  the 
prominence  in  this  record  that  he  deserves,  was 
intact,  for  I  remember  he  almost  wept  when  I  said 
good-bye  to  him  at  the  dressing  station.  Bill  had 
been  one  of  my  intimates,  but  so  quiet  and  unas- 
suming in  his  manner  that,  knowing  him  as  I  do, 
and  knowing  that  he  had  returned  recently  to 
Canada,  it  is  with  diffidence  I  mention  his  name  at 
all,  but  the  spirit  of  Bill  was  so  thoroughly  akin 
to  that  of  my  comrades,  I  must  relate  a  little  story 
about  him. 

When  we  started  for  France,  Bill  Meade  and 
his  chum,  Bill  Richards,  or  "Farmer  Jones,"  as 
we  nicknamed  him,  were  in  London  on  French 
leave.  Returning  to  Salisbury  Plain  they  found 
the  battalion  gone.  Immediately  those  two  stowed 


292  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

themselves  away  among  the  baggage  of  a  depart- 
ing artillery  brigade.  They  managed  successfully 
to  board  the  artillery  transport,  and  when  the  ship 
was  well  on  her  way  they  showed  themselves. 

They  were  arrested  and  taken  before  a  British 

officer  at  S .    Such  men  delighted  the  heart  of 

this  officer,  and  he  saw  to  it  that  they  were  sent 
along  to  us.  Our  officers,  of  course,  reprimanded 
them  for  their  conduct,  but  I  know  that  they  often 
refer  to  these  two  boys  as  men  to  be  proud  of. 

Little  Fitzpatrick  wrote  me  from  a  hospital  in 
London,  and  I  was  relieved  to  hear  from  the  lad- 
die. In  writing,  though,  he  sorrowfully  told  me 
that  Libby  must  be  dead,  for  nothing  had  been 
heard  of  him  since  the  night  before  the  charge. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  reported  as  being 
killed. 

And  now  I  was  to  have  another  exhibition  of 
Morgan's  peculiar  gift  of  second  sight.  My  chum 
was  located  in  a  hospital  in  Dublin  and  at  first 
chance  he  wrote  me.  I  quote  from  his  letter.  He 
was  referring  to  Libby  and  the  general  belief  that 
our  fearless  little  comrade  had  "gone  West." 


BACK  TO  EARTH 293 

"Libby  is  alive!  I  know  it.  I  saw  him  last 
night  wearing  sergeant's  stripes,  and  you  know 
they  can't  kill  that  little  black-whiskered  stiff." 

Next  morning  I  received  a  letter  from  Libby 
himself.  He  was  badly  hurt,  but  alive  and  in  a 
hospital  at  Boulogne.  He  had  been  hit  by  shrap- 
nel, and  one  of  them  had  actually  pierced  a  valve 
of  his  heart.  In  spite  of  this  he  lived  and  actually 
re-enlisted  to  go  back  to  the  front.  After  his  dis- 
charge in  Canada,  although  he  hated  the  thought, 
he  said  he  felt  that  his  place  was  back  with  the 
lads  in  Flanders.  He  lied  to  the  doctors  so  artis- 
tically that  he  got  back  to  the  firing  line.  But 
the  life  had  told  its  tale  and  poor  Lib  was  again 
returned  and  discharged. 

That  his  wonderful  nerve  has  not  yet  deserted 
him,  let  me  say  that  Bill  Moore  and  I  attended  his 
wedding  in  Saskatoon,  a  few  months  ago. 

Fitzpatrick,  only  sixteen  years  old,  returned  to 
Canada,  but  he  felt  just  as  Lib  felt,  and  his  wound 
healing  perfectly  he  became  sound  as  ever  and 
again  enlisted.  He  has  since  been  wounded  again, 
healed  again,  and  at  this  time  is  probably  fighting 


294  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

round  Cambrai.  Just  think  of  it,  you  slackers! 
Only  nineteen  and  the  veteran  of  a  dozen  tre- 
mendous battles. 

After  being  spoiled  by  everybody,  I  at  last  was 
sent  from  the  hospital  to  a  convalescent  camp. 
Here  I  cut  loose,  the  reaction  setting  in.  I  was 
arrested  and  cautioned,  and,  having  thoughts  of  a 
visit  home,  I  decided  to  behave  myself  for  awhile 
and  apply  for  sick  leave.  My  repeated  applica- 
tions were  for  awhile  ignored,  but  at  last  I  said 
to  myself  that  I  must  swing  the  lead.  I  asked  to 
be  paraded  in  front  of  the  Colonel.  I  managed  to 
acquire  a  look  of  awful  suffering  on  my  face,  as  I 
walked  wearily  in  to  see  him  on  my  crutches. 
Without  waiting  to  be  told,  I  flopped  into  a  chair 
with  a  groan,  the  realism  of  which  surprised  my- 
self. 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter,  son*?"  said  the 
Colonel,  as  he  subsided  into  his  chair  after  the 
start  he  had  at  my  wonderful  groan. 

In  a  husky  voice,  like  that  of  a  man  absolutely 
worn  out,  I  replied,  "I  would  like  a  few  weeks' 
leave,  sir." 


BACK  TO  EARTH 295 

"Oh,  and  for  why,  pray?  Are  you  not  com- 
fortable here?" 

I  began  to  unwrap  my  stump,  and  presently  held 
it  up  for  inspection.  "Look  at  it,  sir,"  with  an- 
other splendid  groan. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  it?  Yes,  it  does  look 
inflamed." 

I  knew  it  was  inflamed;  I  had  suffered  quite  a 
little  pain  making  the  stump  acquire  the  inflamed 
appearance  it  had  for  this  particular  occasion,  and 
I  wanted  him  to  see  it  before  it  lost  its  color.  He 
touched  it,  and  he  nearly  collapsed  as  I  let  a  bawl 
out  of  me  that  shook  the  building. 

"Gee  whiz,  sir,  don't,  for  goodness  sake,  hit  it 
again." 

"Why,  my  man,  I  barely  touched  it." 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  I  moaned. 

"You  will  have  to  go  back  to  the  hospital," 
said  he. 

This  did  not  suit  me  a  bit,  and  I  thought  I  had 
shammed  too  realistically. 

"  But,  sir,  I  have  people  in  England,  and  they'd 
look  after  me  fine." 


296  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

"Where  do  they  live V 

"Derbyshire,  sir." 

"Hm!  Can  you  get  the  best  of  medical  atten- 
tion there?" 

"Why  yes,  sir.  There  is  a  military  hospital 
within  ten  minutes'  walk  of  my  home."  (It  was 
twenty  minutes  by  road,  and  an  hour  by  car.) 

"Your  mother  lives  there?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  turned  to  the  acting  clerk. 

"Write  this  man  an  indefinite  furlough." 

I  nearly  forgot  to  keep  my  look  of  agony  in  my 
delight,  for  that  meant  at  least  a  month 

"You  must  report  every  day  to  the  hospital 
there." 

"All  right,  sir."  (I  just  went  once  to  square 
it  with  the  matron,  whom  I  knew.) 

In  my  excitement  and  joy  I  was  almost  out  of 
the  room  before  I  remembered  I  was  a  very  sick 
man.  However,  the  day  was  saved  by  a  really 
marvelous  yell  of  pain  I  managed  to  emit  as  I  was 
crutching  out  of  the  door. 

My  journey  home  was  one  long  series  of  ex- 


FEELING  GOOD  IN  BLIGHTY. 


BACK  TO  EARTH 297 

amples  of  the  treatment  of  the  women  of  England 
to  their  fighting  men.  I  had  to  make  two  changes 
of  trains  and  on  both  occasions  I  was  literally  car- 
ried by  those  tireless  women  from  one  train  to 
the  other.  Nothing  but  the  most  luxurious  travel- 
ing was  good  enough  for  me.  In  fact,  I  really  was 
ashamed  of  myself,  for  the  little  sacrifice  I  had 
made  was  a  drop  in  the  ocean  compared  to  that  of 
many  men  in  all  parts  of  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

HOME 

HOME  at  last.  As  before,  no  wild  hurling 
of  ourselves  into  each  others'  arms,  but  just 
a  prosaic  question  from  my  mother: 

"Well,  how  are  you,  laddie4?" 

"Feeling  fine.     Got  anything  to  eat,  Mater?" 

Thus  was  all  emotion  covered. 

My  father  came  in  the  morning  to  see  me.  I 
tried  just  for  fun  to  surprise  him  into  some  display 
of  emotion  by  suddenly  slipping  out  in  front  of 
him.  I  did  not  know  the  real  Englishman  till 
then.  All  he  did  was  to  pale  a  little,  and  then, 
coolly  eyeing  me  from  head  to  foot,  he  remarked, 
"  They  didna  get  thee  after  all." 

"No,  Dad,  I  got  away  very  lucky." 

"Tha  did;  let's  go  and  hae  a  look  round." 

Just  like  that  grim  old  land  today.  No  fuss,  no 
braggadocio,  just  a  quiet,  grim  resolution  to  see  it 
[298] 


HOME  299 

through  without  wasting  time  on  any  heroics. 
Thus  are  the  English  misunderstood.  Self-efface- 
ment is  not  comprehended  by  some  people,  and 
they  mistake  the  quiet  of  the  Old  Land  for 
lethargy,  and  believe  that  damnable  lie  manu- 
factured so  skilfully  by  German  propagandists 
about  the  quitting  Britisher.  When  the  history 
of  the  war  is  really  written,  if  other  nations  will 
be  fair  and  forget  their  inherent  prejudice 
toward  the  British,  they  will  understand  some- 
thing of  what  they  have  done  for  the  cause  of 
humanity  in  this  War  of  Wars. 


EPILOGUE 

I  CANNOT  let  this  opportunity  pass  without 
a  final  word  to  the  man,  who,  if  he  is  of  proper 
age  and  physically  fit,  has  not,  as  yet,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  come  forward  prepared  if  neces- 
sary to  make  the  sovereign  sacrifice  for  the  cause 
of  human  liberty  and  those  ideals  which  are 
our  blessed  heritage,  and  for  which  our  fathers 
fought  and  bled  and  died. 

It  may  be  that  some  put  forward  as  the  reason 
for  their  staying  out  of  khaki  that  the  pay  al- 
lotted them,  together  with  the  governmental  al- 
lowance, does  not  admit  of  their  families  living 
in  the  same  circumstances  of  comfort  which  they 
have  been  accustomed  to  enjoy;  it  may  be  there 
is  someone  who  is  helpless,  depending  on  your 
effort  for  support;  perhaps  it  is  a  fear  that  your 
business  will  suffer  from  your  absence,  as  no  one 
can  care  for  it  with  the  same  practical  efficiency  as 
[300] 


EPILOGUE  301 


you  yourself;  or  it  may  be  that  the  fear  of  bodily 
injury  —  wounds  or  death  —  has  deterred  you 
from  getting  into  the  ranks. 

If  any  of  these  be  the  cause  and  there  is  any  hu- 
man way  of  surmounting  the  obstacle,  in  the  name 
of  everything  that  the  honor  of  freemen  holds  sa- 
cred, rouse  your  sleeping  manhood  and  remove  the 
obstacle.  By  all  that  you  hold  dear,  do  not  go 
through  life  branded  with  the  abominable  taint 
of  slacker.  Even  if  death  should  befall,  it  is  un- 
utterably more  worthy  to  die  serving  the  cause  of 
all  men,  than  to  live  in  the  ever-present  conscious- 
ness of  duty  undone,  solely  because  you  are  a  cow- 
ard. 

If  it  should  be  your  lot  to  receive  a  wound,  seri- 
ous or  slight,  or  come  through  the  fire  unscathed, 
you  will  not  then  have  to  "hold  your  manhood 
cheap  whilst  any  speaks"  who  fought  with  us  in 
France. 

Of  course  if  your  moral  turpitude  is  of  such  a 
low  order  that  the  preservation  of  your  life  and 
limbs  is  of  vastly  more  importance  than  any  other 
consideration  whatsoever,  then  there  is  no  appeal 


302  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

of  mine,  or  anyone  else's,  that  can  pierce  your  hide 
of  self-satisfied  consciousness.  But  I  trust  it  will 
be  my  good  fortune  that  none  such  will  read  this 
tale. 

The  aims  and  ambitions  of  the  German  high 
command,  which  have  permeated  the  entire  Ger- 
man nation,  and  which  have  caused  them  to  pre- 
pare for  this  war  for  generations,  and  waged  with 
a  scientific  brutality  that  out-Herods  Herod  — 
formulating  and  carrying  out  excesses,  that  in  point 
of  exquisite  torture  and  overwhelming  number, 
surpass  the  dreams  of  any  ancient  or  modern  po- 
tentate of  fiendishness,  has  made  them  an  outcast 
among  the  nations  of  earth  that  have  for  their 
ideal  of  citizenship  the  undying  pronouncement 
of  the  constitution  of  the  Greatest  Republic  — 
that  all  men  are  endowed  with  an  equal  right  to 
life,  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness. 

Therefore,  I  say,  with  all  the  earnestness  that  is 
in  me,  to  you  who  have  not  settled  this  thing  in  your 
conscience,  think  what  it  means  for  you  and  your 
children  and  your  children's  children  if  through 
any  mischance,  the  Fates  should  decree  a  victory 


EPILOGUE  303 


in  this  war  for  the  Teutons!  Do  not,  I  beseech 
you,  lull  yourself  into  a  state  of  torpid  inactivity 
with  the  idea  that  there  are  plenty  of  men  to  do 
the  fighting  without  making  it  necessary  for  you 
to  take  the  risk.  If  most  of  the  men  took  that  at- 
titude, it  would  only  be  a  question  of  time,  and 
not  a  very  long  time,  when  the  Hun  would  be 
knocking  at  our  gates  in  America.  Can  you  im- 
agine anything  worse  that  could  befall  the  world? 

And  to  those  who  cannot  possibly  go  to  the  fir- 
ing line  by  reason  of  physical  infirmities  or  age,  or 
other  reasons,  there  are  numberless  ways  in  which 
you  can  assist  the  great  work;  there  are  many 
things  to  be  done  at  home  which  are  just  as  neces- 
sary as  the  fighting  in  the  front  line  trench. 

To  my  mind  one  of  the  most  important  things 
to  be  done  here  is  to  put  the  quietus  once  and  for  all 
upon  the  disloyal  tendencies  of  several  citizens 
whose  sympathies  are  avowedly  ranged  alongside 
the  Central  Powers. 

It  is  almost  incomprehensible  to  think  that  any 
man,  or  set  of  men,  who  have  made  not  only  a 
comfortable  living,  but  amassed  fortunes  in  this 


304  HOLDING  THE  LINE 

land,  and  have  enjoyed  the  freedom  of  our  insti- 
tutions and  our  laws,  should  avail  themselves  of 
the  protection  given  them  by  that  very  freedom 
and  those  very  laws  to  undermine  the  power  of 
the  land  they  have  sworn  to  defend.  Yet,  such 
is  the  fact.  They  are  so  short-sighted  and  their 
skulls  are  so  thick  that  they  cannot  discern  the 
difference  between  freedom  of  thought  and  action, 
and  German  Kultur  or  German  efficiency. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  a  dissertation 
here  upon  the  German  point  of  view,  because 
those  who  read  this  book  have,  I  take  it,  long  since 
settled  in  their  minds  the  absolute  unrighteousness 
of  the  German  proposition  and  the  corresponding 
righteousness  of  that  for  which  the  Allies  are  con- 
tending, and  if  by  chance  the  tale  should  fall  into 
the  hands  of  any  of  the  proponents  of  Kultur,  they 
would  not  understand  the  explanation  if  I  made 
it. 

So,  I  say,  if  any  of  these  human  snakes  cross 
your  path  and  their  traitorous  activities,  either 
through  the  spoken  word  or  the  disloyal  action, 
come  under  your  observation,  it  is  just  as  vital, 


EPILOGUE  305 

if  not  more  so,  that  you  take  the  necessary  steps 
to  see  that  it  is  not  repeated  as  it  is  to  perform  any 
other  service  for  the  cause. 

In  conclusion,  let  me  say  to  you,  prospective 
fighting  men  who  have  not  yet  signed  up,  and  I 
say  it  in  all  humbleness  of  spirit  and  with  a  deep 
sense  of  regret  that  I  was  not  permitted  to  do  more 
than  I  did,  that  if  I  had  it  to  do  over  again  and 
knew  beforehand  that  I  was  going  to  be  maimed, 
as  I  have  been,  I  would  still  go  and  thank  God  for 
the  opportunity  of  going. 


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